racing heartbeats

sakhir, bahrain; march 28, 2021

Max grits his teeth.

Fuck.

He cannot believe he lost that. He was doing so fucking well during the race — he pushed and pushed and got so close to Hamilton. So close he even managed to overtake the guy. But for that, he had to have all four of his tires over the kerbs, past the racing lines, against the rules, yadda yadda. He had been biting his lip from the moment he passed Hamilton. He was glad — back on pole and ready to bring home the first victory of the season, but he feared it’d get back to him.

Then, over the board radio, he heard his engineer tell him to give the position back. Let Hamilton overtake him. Don’t risk the penalty.

It was so unfair.

So, given the good, professional driver Max Verstappen is, he gave the position back and did everything in his power to overtake Hamilton again. To no avail. The Shakir circuit is not a circuit made for overtaking. It’s all strategy — when do you pit, when do you wait, switch positions with teammates, which tires to use now, how long will they last. It’s not that essential part of racing that Max loves — the overtaking, the fights, the battles, the infinite adrenaline rushing through his veins as he steers his car a certain way, as he picks a different race line than everyone else. As he passes someone before him and just barely misses their wheels to damage his front wing.

Shakir isn’t made for that, Max knew. He had trust in his team to make the right strategic decisions. He started from pole! He had to bring this home! But Mercedes was smarter.

They weren’t faster, they were smarter.

Oh boy! They weren’t faster, there’s so much potential for the rest of the season — everyone keeps telling him. Max smiles, Max nods. Sure, their race pace is insane this year, the RB16B is faster than even its predecessors. The motor is strong, and Mercedes’s motor is strong. They’re so well matched. It promises a lot for this season.

Just the idea of the fights that he and Hamilton will have on track makes his fingers itch with excitement.

But now, walking through the paddock after he left the stage to get his big, wonderful second-place prize, he feels nothing but frustration.

He’s not angry at Hamilton, of course not. The guy did nothing wrong. He’s angry at himself and the only person he can take it out on is Hamilton. Big difference.

So here he is, walking past his own Red Bull part in the paddock and heading straight for Hamilton’s motor home. There are a lot of questioning gazes thrown his way, but Max doesn’t see it. He has a goal, and he just wants to talk.

With balled fists and his cheek between his teeth, he knocks on Hamilton’s door. It opens on its own as if it wasn’t closed properly. Max lets himself in, closing the door after him.

Lewis Hamilton, 7th-time world champion, undefeatable driver of Mercedes (who even is Bottas, honestly), and absolute vision, stands before Max. He’s leaning against a little bar that Mercedes gave his motor home. His left hand is on the counter, a glass of water in his right hand, and his race suit is unzipped and hanging loosely on his hips. His white Mercedes turtleneck creates a big contrast with his black skin.

If Max wasn’t already a little bit head over heels with this guy, he would’ve gawked at the view. He’s done that enough, and he’s got a goal.

Hamilton turns to him when Max enters. His eyebrow raises and his lips part, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s probably confused as to how Max got in here in the first place — being from another team and not allowed to cross the boundaries of a competitor in fear of overhearing secrets and plans and all that. No one seemed to mind, Max tells himself, otherwise they would’ve stopped him.

Max’s adrenaline has gone to his head. Honestly, he would’ve never done this if he were in his right mind. But through his veins pumps a weird cocktail of pure adrenaline, disappointment in himself, and other feelings. He can’t be blamed for his actions for the next, let’s say hour, at least.

He walks straight to Hamilton, places his hands on that nice little counter next to either side of his hips, and leans in real close to him. There’s a question on Hamilton’s tongue, but he can’t seem to get himself to ask anything. Max smirks, his eyes dark, and he hisses quietly, “Just wanted to congratulate you, Lewis.”

Lewis puts his glass down on the counter, leaning back just slightly. He doesn’t seem to mind Max in his personal bubble all that much, save for the confusion written all over his face. He scratches his jaw, “Thanks, Max — I, uh, you put up a real— a real fight there, good job.”

Max scans all of Lewis’s face — his sharp jawline, the slight stubble he has, the big brown eyes full of wonder, and his messy, sweaty hair, normally adorably curled, now a mess from his balaclava. Max moves to Lewis’s ear, earrings dangling with every breath Max takes, still wearing his smirk. He smells Lewis’s sweat and it shouldn’t turn him on as much as it does, “Hm, t’was tough for ya, things going like this at the beginning of the season. You normally never win the first race, and now you won, less than a second ahead of me.” His breath is warm as he continues, “I look forward to the rest of the season.”

Lewis’s breath hitches as he has a very physical reaction to Max. Max smirks, feeling bold, he traces a line with his lips from Lewis’s ear to his neck, where he meets the fabric of his turtleneck. Lewis’s hands grip the counter roughly, his knuckles turning white, but he isn’t doing anything to get Max away from him. Lewis says, “Are you always gonna come after the race to congratulate me, then?”

“Oh?” Max murmurs into Lewis’s skin, “Am I going to lose every battle against you?” He doesn’t move away from Lewis’s skin, merely continues his path to Lewis’s Adam's apple, “Our race pace is equal, if mine’s not better. You won on strategy, ‘s not something to be particularly proud of, hmm?” He speaks so matter-of-factly and sees how Lewis’s knuckles turn even whiter.

“‘M just sayin...’”

Max drags his lips away from Lewis’s skin, straightens his back and moves to hover over Lewis, meeting his shaky, rather confused eyes, “You are into this.”

Lewis’s eyes fall briefly to Max’s mouth and Max smirks.

“Shut up, Max.”

Max bites his lip and then goes back to his sinful smirk, “Is that really what you want? You’re kinda giving me mixed signals here.” One of Max’s hands travels to Lewis’s waist, as he slips a finger under the hem of Lewis’s turtleneck. He’s eternally grateful for his own timing, that Lewis had already unzipped his racing suit and left it hanging loosely around his hips. Lewis’s skin is warm to Max’s cold touch.

Lewis doesn’t stop Max.

Max moves further, gets a hand under Lewis’s bright white turtleneck. He cups Lewis’s hip.

Lewis hisses, pupils blown wide, “It’s- it’s the adrenaline, you know- post race, and all…” He makes himself meet Max’s dark eyes, who raises an eyebrow in response. Lewis takes a shaking breath, “I’ve a debrief in 15- I’ll, I’ll need to-“ But he makes no move to get Max away from him. He slots so perfectly under Max’s figure.

“You can tell me to move away, ” Max’s face is serious, eyebrow raised, his hand has stopped moving and his shoulders are tight, “And I will.” His eyes are fixed on Lewis’s and Lewis starts pleading. He shoots his gaze from Max’s to the couch, to Max’s hips and back to Max’s eyes.

Instinctively, he grabs Max’s jawline, his fingers sliding behind Max’s ear and Max’s hair tangles around Lewis’s fingers. Lewis pulls him close.

Later he’ll blame it on adrenaline or something. But now he finally, finally has Max’s soft lips on his own.

The kiss, hard at first, turns softer as Max leans into Lewis and Lewis feels that they’re both serious.

Max kisses back eagerly, lets his face be guided by Lewis’s hands. When the kiss gets softer, Max swipes his tongue on Lewis’s bottom lip. They’re more heated and less rushed, no longer filled by adrenaline or risk taking. Maybe Lewis does have a good strategy.

Lewis is pinned by Max’s figure against the counter, and it’s making him feel completely helpless under his strength. Max might not flaunt his looks like Lewis does, but he carries a serious amount of muscles when he wants to. While kissing the breath out of Lewis, Max slides his leg in between Lewis’s and presses his long thigh against Lewis’s cock. It’s so embarrassing, but he’s getting hard so fucking quickly. Lewis gasps. Max huffs a laugh before moving to Lewis’s ear and bites at his earlobe.

Max licks a drop of sweat that had remained from the race, and whispers, “It’s your home, how do you want me?”

Lewis rolls his hips involuntarily against Max’s, and his hands fall down to fist the front of Max’s clothing. His knees are shaking and he’s so filled with desire — he hasn’t felt this needy in such a long time. God, adrenaline and Max form a risky, dangerous, and absolutely delicious cocktail.

As if Max can tell how Lewis is struggling to hold himself up, he gets his hands around Lewis’s hips and moves Lewis to sit atop the bar.

Max moves his hands under Lewis’s turtleneck, exploring the entirety of his muscular back with his silky touch. Lewis smiles into the kiss, wrapping his legs around Max’s waist and rolling his hips. His own fingers find their way under Max’s racing suit. He quickly decides he’s bothered by it. His slightly tentative fingers curl around the zipper on Max’s throat as he undoes the top of Max’s racing suit.

Lewis can barely take the time to think of kissing the newly exposed skin on Max’s neck, before Max’s hands roughly grab the hem of Lewis’s turtleneck and yank it over his face. He tosses into the abyss of Lewis’s mobil home. Without even making eye-contact, Max’s lips find Lewis’s chest as he kisses and kisses every piece of skin he can find, outlining the tattoos with his lips. Lewis’s hands travel to Max’s hair when Max bites down, taking his time to suck a deep purple mark into the skin.

When Lewis hits the gym with his personal trainer in a day, he’ll be fucked.

But, to be fair, he hopes he’ll be fucked right now too. In a different meaning of the word.

Lewis rolls his hips again, and finds Max’s hard dick pressing through the double layers of his racing suit. He bites his lip and finally finds the peace of mind — well, clouded by horny thoughts, he’s not thinking that clearly — to respond to Max. His voice is rough from arousal when he says, “Get out of your suit and fuck me.” Max’s dark glare sends shivers down Lewis’s spine. His voice tickles the sensitive skin of his neck when Max leans in and bites at his jawline, “That I can do.” Max moves his own hands to his hips to push his racing suit to his ankles. He then takes Lewis’s suit and removes it away from him entirely.

Lewis was leaning on his arms to help remove the fabric easier, and he never expected to struggle holding himself up. He feels weakened all over, merely by Max’s gaze, the hickeys Lewis wears, and the plans they have.

Though both drivers know that the excessive amount of layers they wear are necessary, they keep muttering curse words to the FIA. Layer after layer gets shredded and falls away, until Lewis’s nude chest meets Max’s and Max’s hand curls around Lewis. “Fuck,” Lewis grunts, and bites into Max’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” Max grunts. He gets his free hand to grab Lewis’s hip and press deeply into it. “Move up, pretty boy,” Max whispers, and Lewis obliges.

Though he could spend the rest of his days touching Lewis’s absolutely perfect dick — it’s wonderfully thick in a way that Max isn’t — learning every last inch of skin and every touch that makes Lewis moan and grunt, he finds himself moving away from Lewis’s dick. The fingers of his right hand move to tap on Lewis's lower lip, and Lewis opens his mouth to suck on them eagerly. His lips are plump, reddened by their kiss and so fucking perfect around Max’s fingers. The image he’s making, with his hollowed cheeks and the exaggerated sucking noises as his tongue swipes and curls and sucks, is absolutely obscene. Max can’t stop imagining what Lewis’s lips would look like around his cock, and he has to blink himself back into focus — he’s got a goal here. Or something. He gets his fingers out of Lewis’s mouth and onto his perfect ass. He squeezes the flesh and his breath hitches when Lewis rolls his hips against Max’s.

Fuck, everything about Lewis is perfect.

If only he wasn’t so damn cocky.

Max slides one finger into Lewis, little by little, seeing what he can take. Lewis’s hole swallows up Max’s fingers easily, and he’s rocking himself onto them to take more.

Lewis’s fingernails dig deep marks into Max's biceps as Max moves his second finger in, opening him up more and more. Lewis’s head falls over Max’s shoulder and he mouths at the skin.

“Max- Max I can- I can take you,” Lewis breathes.

The pre-come he’s leaking is sticky in between their bodies. Max huffs a low laugh, “Wait just one-” He moves his fingers to that perfect spot and Lewis mewls, “-second.”

Lewis moans and moans, and it echoes all through his small home. He is sure he’s loud enough for passersby to hear. But hey, he can’t be blamed. He’s getting fingered within an inch of his life. Max keeps hitting that spot, tauntingly.

“Please,” Lewis begs — Lewis never begs — “Get your dick in me.”

Max chuckles lowly, “Please’ must feel foreign to say, huh, Hamilton?”

“Max, I swear, you- you know I’ve got a debrief in a few-”

“Oh, you’re right, I should just walk away and leave you wanting.”

“You should def- definitely not do thaaaaatttt, oh boy,” Lewis moans as Max plays around with his prostate. Lewis’s hand finds Max’s dick as revenge, curling around the very bottom to form a little cockring with his fingers, “Please, you’re only making this harder on yourself.”

Max grunts, then considers for a second. He bites his lip, taking a thorough look at just how debauched Lewis looks. “Where’s your lube?”

“Fuck lube, come here-”

“Lewis.”

“...lowest drawer on your left.”

“Good boy.”

Lewis does not blush at the praise. Absolutely not. Nor does he whine at the loss of Max’s long, thin and perfect fingers in him. He’s not a needy slut, mind you.

Max smiles as he walks away and grabs the lube. He raises his eyebrow and holds up a condom. Lewis shakes his head, holds a hand up, “Clean.”

Max nods and puts the condom away, walking back to his newly found favorite spot in between Lewis’s legs. Lewis’s legs immediately wrap around Max’s hips, again. He can’t stop himself from pulling Max closer and closer to him. Max hovers over Lewis, his chin on Lewis’s shoulder as he drops some lube on his fingers, behind Lewis’s back.

Lewis’s helpless in Max’s hold, his fingers tracing soft circles on Max’s back, connecting one birthmark with the next. He sighs contentedly, then holds his breath.

Max holds Lewis’s ass in his hands, lifting him up ever so slightly. He positions his hard cock at Lewis's hole, “Ready?”

He feels Lewis nod, his messy and curly hair ticking Max’s neck. He’d love to wake up to that sensation.

He shakes the thought away, “I need you to say it.”

“If you don’t put your fucking dick within me in the next two seconds I will- oh, oh, ooooh.”

“So that-“ Max gasps, “-is what it takes to get you to shut up. Jesus, you're tight.” Max bottoms out and takes a moment to breathe. Boy, he’d never expected to end up with his dick in sir Lewis Hamilton’s ass on the first racing day of the season. Or, well, ever, for that matter. His mind has been turned off from the moment he had a little break after the whole post-race ritual. For the first time he seems to think clearly, as he looks down Lewis’s back and sees his muscles flex and relax, his own hands digging into tattooed skin, spreading Lewis’s ass cheeks apart, and his dick disappearing into Lewis.

What a perfect picture.

Lewis rolls his hips, mouthing at Max’s jawline and Max feels the smile on his lips. “Earth to Max, you can move now. I won’t send you away.”

That was not at all what Max was worried about. He moves back to look at Lewis, eyes blown wide, soft smile on his red and swollen lips, a mark or two where his neck meets his shoulder.

The image is perfect.

Oh no.

Lewis leans in and kisses Max, patiently waiting until he’ll move more. Max kisses back, and it seems to bring him back to where he is, and far away from his deep purple and heavenly thoughts. Dangerous territory.

Max’s hands flex and twitch, and he digs into Lewis’s skin. Suddenly he’s overcome with want, desire, lust. He lifts Lewis up until his dick slips out, then slams him back down. Lewis screams, and Max bets the entire motor home shakes. He keeps up a fast and hard rhythm, his hesitation from mere seconds ago vanished into thin air. Determination finds its way through Max’s veins and he makes the most of it.

Lewis can’t keep up, but he’s not exactly complaining either. His head is thrown back and his fingers are tugging Max’s hair in all directions.

“Mm-Max-” Lewis moans, and Max never wants to hear his name leave anyone’s lips but Lewis’s.

“I got you,” Max grunts through gritted teeth, close to the edge himself. He curls his hand around Lewis, teases him for just a second before he jerks him off in earnest. He feels Lewis's hole clench as Max jerks him off and pounds into him. The stimulation is too much, especially when Max finds Lewis’s prostate and Lewis turns into a puddle of skin.

“Max!” Lewis screams again, his nails digging bloody marks into Max’s shoulders, but Max couldn’t care less. He feels Lewis’s hole clench tighter and tighter. Lewis kisses his lips, bites his bottom lip and whispers, “Come f-for me.”

Max’s a goner right then.

His grunt is animalistic, and he buries himself deep inside Lewis and comes.

Desperate to catch their breaths, they bask in silence before they realise that they’ve responsibilities to fulfill.

Lewis sighs first, cheekily muttering, “You’re allowed to visit after races more often.”

Max chuckles. He pulls himself out of Lewis and watches some of his come spill on the bar. He’d mourn the waste, making plans to either eat Lewis out next time, or buy him a butt plug.

Already thinking of next time.

He shouldn't get ahead of himself.

Max nibbles on Lewis’s ear, then whispers quietly, “Have fun with debrief.”

Lewis sighs, but nods. He hops off the counter, and Max notices there’s a red line in his skin from the edge of the counter, and many more purple bruises from Max’s hands.

God, Lewis has a perfect ass.

Lewis dresses, leaving Max in his motorhome. He winks right before he walks out.

Max grits his teeth.

Fuck.

emilia romagna, italy; april 18, 2021

A race suspension, Max sighs as he steps out of his car. He was doing so well, leading the race and cruising over the drying tracks. It had rained right before the race, and a little during. Max is used to that. He’s got this.

But then, like always in racing, something unexpected happened. Expect the unexpected: some guys crashed into each other and the debris on the track made the race unsafe to continue. Red flag. Go to the pit lane. Wait for further instructions.

It is cold outside as Max wanders around his car. He is looped in a conversation with Gianpiero about the weather. After a second or two, when he is handed a Red Bull raincoat, he unzips his racing suit to let it hang loosely around his hips. He looks through the fence over the tracks; Enzo e Dino Ferrari looks gorgeous, empty of racing cars, some parts of the track heated up by the rubber of tires, some still wet. Never can one see the racing lines as clearly as right after the rain. Max thinks back to the race; he had started third, after his teammate and Lewis Hamilton. Immediately in the first lap did he overtake Hamilton, and then it was pushing and pushing to drive away from him as quickly as possible.

Max hasn’t thought about Lewis since he left his motorhome in Bahrain. Of course he hasn’t, what’s there to think about? His perfect lips around Max’s fingers, the marks and bruises on Max’s shoulders, his ass in Max’s hands, the way he moaned Max’s name… okay, so maybe he has thought about Lewis. Or maybe hasn’t been able to stop thinking about Lewis.

He’s caught it bad.

“Max? Real fight you put up there, man.”

Lewis.

Max turns around and is met with a messy, sweaty, and slightly nervous Lewis. Lewis seems twitchy, gaze unsure. This is the first time they’ve spoken since Max’s visit.

“Hey, Lewis,” Max leans in to give Lewis a slightly awkward one-armed bro hug. “You okay?”

“Hm? Yeah, fine, fine,” Lewis says, not meeting Max’s eyes. He scratches his jawline, “Made a mistake on the field.”

“You? A mistake? Oh, dear world champion, are you handing me the trophy?” Then Max leans in closer to Lewis’s ear, “Is my dick that good for you?”

Lewis groans, then places a hand on Max’s shoulder to move him back and meet his eyes, “Not here.”

“No? I think you like being seen. You’re always so loud with everything you do, your activism, your social media… you’ve like five times as many followers as me,” There’s a glint in Max’s eyes before he winks, “You’re loud in sex too.”

“Max, I swear to god, the race isn’t even over.”

“We don’t know when the marshals will be done cleaning up either,” Max looks over at the track, but he can only see the start/finish, not the place where the two drivers crashed, “So we’ve got time to kill.”

“...What are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything, just stating some facts.”

“Oh, fuck off, you’re so suggestive.” Lewis crosses his arms.

Max smirks, looking over the paddock and then he nods in the direction of a darkened corner. In his ears, he hears his Gianpiero telling him about the race suspension, and that there aren’t any updates. Max thanks him, then walks to the darkened corner. Lewis circles around his axis, then takes a detour to walk to Max.

Max falls with his back against the wall and sighs. He’s so not the type to be exhibitionistic, let alone risk his status, his professionalism, and his job — which is essentially the reason he lives and wakes up every day, to race, it’s in his blood — for a hookup, or whatever he and Lewis are. But god, the man is magical, addictive, new, strange, hot, perfect. Sue him for being a bit infatuated.

“Hey,” Lewis sighs fondly, standing before Max, chest to chest.

“Hey.”

Lewis reaches out to touch Max, trailing a hand from Max’s wrist to his upper arm, then curls around his bicep. Max’s arm reaches to hold Lewis’s hip as he pulls Lewis close.

Bad idea, bad idea, Max thinks, but then Lewis leans in and kisses him, body fully pressed against Max’s and Max’s mind replaces every single bad thought with Lewis Lewis Lewis...

Lewis’s hands are frantic and rushed as he unzips Max’s jacket and curls his hand around Max’s clothed cock. Max moans at the touch, the warm vibrations in Lewis’s mouth sending shivers down both their spines.

It may be cold outside, but their insides are warm and wanting. Lewis fully takes the lead, jerking Max off frantically and hungrily. He’s doing nothing to keep silent, but he doubts anyone will hear it over the whirring motors and chatting people. They’ll be missed, of course, they’re both stars of this race. He bets there is so much press running around looking for them. Or, worse, their team principals… Lewis feels Toto Wolff’s eyes like lasers on him already.

Lewis shakes the thought away as he grinds against Max’s leg. Max snickers, “Get-Get your dick out too, c’mere.” He reaches for Lewis’s jacket, unzips it, and gets a hand inside Lewis’s pants. It’s far from comfortable, and Max prefers to get on his knees instead, but he has to make do. He always does.

Max curls soft fingers around Lewis’s wrist as he takes his hand away from Max’s dick. Lewis looks up at him, then kisses his jawline. It’s an odd gesture of trust, suddenly, and Max lets himself bask in the softness of the moment. He shouldn't, but eh, he also shouldn’t be giving and receiving a handjob in a secluded corner of the paddock while the race is still ongoing and he has to win.

Max gets his hand in front of Lewis’s face, “Lick.”

Lewis rolls his eyes, but then sticks out his tongue. He’s making a show of it, closing his eyes and rolling his hips against Max’s as his tongue dances over Max’s hand. Lewis does nothing normally, Max concludes, he’s so extra. Max would rather stay in the shadows and just race, but Lewis always has to be seen. Ah well, who’s Max fooling? He’ll look anyway.

Max retreats his hand, leans over to kiss Lewis on his nose while moving down to curl his large hand around both men’s dicks. They groan in unison, and Max’s free hand immediately shoots to Lewis’s mouth to cover it. “Quiet,” Max demands.

Lewis nips at Max’s finger once, then starts panting as Max jerks them off quicker and quicker. It’s just on the right side of rough, as Max uses Lewis’s precome as a substitute for lube. Max’s thumb smeared the pre-come around and in between them, to get things wetter and slicker. It was easy for him to do so, with Lewis leaking so much. Max smirks as he sees the mess. Lewis makes an absolute gorgeous image, and he’s getting come everywhere — it’s all over their dicks, Max’s hand, and it starts to drip over to their suits. Max couldn’t care less, and Lewis seems to be in too much of a blissed out state to care. Only when Max leans over to Lewis’s ear to whisper, “You are so messy… that all for me?”

Lewis responds, blush on his cheek and hand moving to remove Max’s hand from his mouth, “Shut up, Max.”

And yet, Max feels how Lewis’s cock twitches, how it starts throbbing in his hand. He’s such a weak boy for Max’s dirty talk. For Max’s hand — which he places back over his mouth, as if he’d scream out without the barrier. For Max’s lips, trailing a way over the shell of his ear and sending shivers down his spine. For Max’s teeth, nibbling at his ear. For Max’s words, low vibrations in his ear as he talks Lewis to his orgasm (“Look at you, such a messy boy all for me…”). For Max.

Or at least, that’s what Max hopes.

Lewis’s hands are tight fists on Max’s hips, keeping himself steady. His knees are wobbly. He has his head thrown into Max’s shoulder, breath warm in Max’s hand.

In Max’s ear, he hears Christian tell him he’s got ten minutes till race restart. Lewis gets a similar message, except he has to be back on track before that. They both bite their lips till they bleed to keep themselves from groaning. The sudden voice shook them out of their bubble, and suddenly they can hear the whirring engines and chatting drivers and team members over their own moans and pants. It’s almost exhibitionistic, and it helps drive them further to the edge.

It doesn’t take them long after that before the heat in their lower abdomens is spreading and spreading, and they come nearly together. Push and pull on track, synchronisation in sex. Who’d have known.

Lewis slumps against Max’s body, letting himself fall. Max gets his hand away from Lewis’s mouth and around his shoulders. They stay like this for a few seconds, before Max pushes Lewis away — they have to report back on the paddock with their crew, already having been gone for so long.

Before Max can even get his pants back on, Lewis grabs Max’s hand and sucks their mingled come off obscenely. God, the guy must have an oral fixation of sorts. Max can’t say he minds.

Lewis’s eyes are wide and glassy when he hollows his cheeks and takes Max’s fingers in one by one. Max watches, mesmerized. Lewis gets Max’s pinky finger off with a pop, then busies himself with Max’s pants and his coat. Max’s sure he’ll need to drive to survive, because Lewis’s killing him here.

Lewis gets his own dick back in his pants, wipes away some of the come on his turtleneck, and then zips up his jacket too. He steals a glance at Max, his eyes twinkling with mischief and determination, “Catch you on track, huh?”

Max groans and throws his head back, “Don’t let the blue flags come for your ass.”

“Now, now, don’t get cocky. I might just catch up to you.”

“You’re too far behind. I'd like to see you try though.” Max looks at Lewis again. Lewis’s somewhere in P8, and Max’s leading the race. Though possible, it’s dangerous to overtake due to the weather conditions.

Lewis opens his mouth to retort, then hears a call from his principal to meet him on the track. Lewis winks, “Meet you there, pretty boy.” and he walks away.

Max freezes, stunned. Sure, they play and flirt around on track a lot — and with the other drivers too — but it’s all fun and games until you start catching feelings.

Max feels his heart flutter. This is bad. He walks after Lewis, and catches up with him.

See, Max’s known for being a goofball and grabbing his colleague’s asses when he can, so when he grabs Lewis’s ass on the paddock, no one will bat an eye. And when his hand lingers, well, that’s no one’s business, isn’t it? And when Lewis stills for a second, and gasps softly, no one will be too surprised, right?

A cameraman walks over to the two of them to get a shot, so Max turns to Lewis, face neutral, “Tell me about your mistake, what happened?”

“I slipped, ended up in the gravel, had to get back on the track. I’m pretty sure you outlapped me.”

“Oh,” Max’s face is empathetic — Lewis’s an amazing driver. He’s not a 7th-time world champion for nothing, he really deserves it.

Or at least, he did, because now it’s time for Max to shine. He wants to be world champion — he’s never had a better car than he has this season, and he’s more than ready. And he’s not going to get work and pleasure mixed up to the detriment of his own driving. He’s here to win, to race. Having Lewis as some sort of weird crush-with-benefits-situation is nice, but it will not affect his professionalism once Max's in the car. It will not.

It will not!

If he were to win this race, and Lewis ends the race on P3, he’d overtake him in the championship. Sure, it’s only the second race of the season, but that doesn’t mean Max doesn’t want a headstart.

Lewis hears something in his ear, and nods. He pats Max’s shoulder with a wink, “See ya.”

Max nods back, watching him leave.

A race suspension, Max sighs.

algarve, portugal; may 2, 2021

Max runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head. This weekend needs to be removed from his memory as soon as humanly possible.

His shoulders hang low as he walks through the paddock to his driver's home. He did the best he could, this race, but second place isn’t what he likes.

The Algrave circuit is a pain in the ass — there’s a lot of height difference, it’s a very technical track, and the stewards have done everything in their power to make this race as shitty as possible for Max. Max barely had grip on the track, and the whole ‘to finish first, you first have to finish’ was a big motto for this race in particular. Max was just happy he managed to bring his beloved RB16B home safely.

And the stewards… god, the stewards had a highlight in their Hating Max Campaign this weekend. First they stole his pole-position because he exceeded track limits in the qualifying, which, sure, Max could live with that. It was annoying and painful, but they weren’t exactly wrong. Then, during his last lap in the race, Max did everything to push for that gorgeous extra point for fastest lap. But no, this, too, was taken from him. Again because he exceeded the track limits at turn 14. What makes it even more annoying is that before this weekend, there weren’t any track limits at turn 14. Yesterday, the stewards just collectively decided that there would be No Max Rights in this race, so they added the track limits rule during the third free practice, and Max just had to get fucked, or something.

So, if Max’s shoulders hang a bit low when he heads to his little home, sue him! Sure, he got second place and he should be happy with silver rather than nothing, but he can’t help but feel a bit wronged here.

Once home, he undresses from his racing suit and hops in some comfortable jeans and his mandatory Red Bull polo. He grabs a glass of water and mindlessly scrolls through the endless notifications and mentions on his homescreen. They vary from tweets about how unfair the stewards are, to news headlines about his second place, to instagram posts where he’s been tagged… it’s always chaos post-race. Max just skims through most of them, until:

Instagram: [maxverstappen1]: lewishamilton liked your post

Instagram: [maxverstappen1]: lewishamilton commented: “Was a good race, buddy. You made it tough out there for me! Congrats on P2💪🏽🏎😝😏 Here’s to many more battles

“Oh, fuck you,” Max sighs, but can’t help the grin from spreading across his face. He rereads the message again, then puts his phone down on the counter. He’s not gonna swing by Lewis’s, no. Not this time — he’ll only think that Max wants to have sex and if there is one thing Max cannot think about right now, it’s sex. God, he just wants to crawl under his covers and wake up in Spain next Friday like ten minutes before free practice starts.

And definitely not swing by Lewis’s driver's home in the meantime.

Max chugs the last bit of water from his glass and places the glass in the sink. He looks around his own driver's home.

A short visit can’t hurt.

Max walks over the paddock, shoulders still hanging low. As he walks, he feels watched, annoyed. He grunts — maybe this was a bad idea. He scratches the back of his head and tells himself he’s only gonna congratulate Lewis, and then leave again. They should not and will not make a habit of having sex after a race — it’s bad for them! Bad for the sport, for their performance, for their status. Bad for Max’s feelings! He’s way too infatuated with Lewis, and already was before he headed to Lewis’s driver's home and fucked him on the counter. He should not let this get out of control.

Two knocks on Lewis’s door and it swings open. Lewis visibly brightens when he sees Max — his eyes got wider and he showed that million-dollar smile of his. Lewis had taken the downtime to get out of his racing suit as well, now wearing a Mercedes white polo with black jeans, ripped at the knees. He looks so fucking devourable but Max is not here for sex! Not today!

Lewis steps aside to make way for Max to enter, but Max waves his hand.

“I was just here to congratulate—”

“Hello, number two!” Lewis interrupts gleefully, as if he senses Max’s resistance, “Come on in,” and Lewis reaches out for Max’s sleeve to pull him inside. Max mumbles his protests, but follows regardless.

The door closes behind Max and he’s immediately pushed against it.

Lewis’s close to him, standing chest to chest, but he doesn’t do anything to make a move yet. He smiles, “You did good man, real good out there.”

Max shakes his head, politely, “Thanks, man, but I gotta get going. I just wanted to—”

A frown, and Lewis moves back. He studies Max. It’s as if he sees Max’s downturned eyes and his unfocused gaze, hears his lack of jokes and his sighs, and feels the exhaustion in his fingertips. Lewis smiles softly, a hand on Max’s arm tracing an idle path, “Let me take care of you. Go sit on the couch.”

“Lewis—” Max wants to protest.

“No. No buts or whatever. Go sit on the couch.”

Reluctantly, Max moves to sit on the couch. He takes his place at the far left end, leaving enough space for Lewis next to him. Lewis rummages around behind him.

Before Max can look back to see what he’s up to, Lewis’s standing in front of him. Max looks up at him, and follows Lewis with his eyes as he watches him kneel down. His eyes are set on Max’s, and filled with determination.

Max shakes his head, hand moving to Lewis’s to move him away, “You don’t need— Lewis—”

Lewis just smiles and kisses Max’s knee. His hands find their way to Max’s thighs as they massage him through the fabric, “Trust me, okay? I got you.”

And look, Max can’t help it. He’s thrown his head back, hand in Lewis’s gorgeous braided hair and just lets Lewis have him however he pleases. Lewis is offering — no, Lewis is telling Max that he wants to give this to Max, that Max should relax. And hey, maybe he should. Maybe he should stop worrying about their professionalism and just lift his hips when Lewis’s fingers curl around the waistband of his jeans. Maybe he should let Lewis remove his pants until they’re around his ankles. He should relax into the couch as Lewis gets his hand around Max’s dick, and massages it.

Max lets out a low groan and feels some tension fading away from his shoulders. The stewards’ decisions long forgotten, his second place way behind him, the fact that he’s nearly slipped a few times and had to fight for his life to even finish this race… it all ebbs away as Lewis places a few soft kisses on Max’s thighs.

Max’s hand scratches Lewis’s scalp. He cannot believe for the life of him that Sir Lewis Hamilton is doing this to him. That he is softly jerking his hardening dick through the fabric of his underwear, kissing his thighs, patient with him, taking care of him when he needs it, before Max even knew he needs this himself.

He lets himself have this — just this once. After today, he’ll have to talk to Lewis about their relationship, about their professionalism, about whatever-the-fuck-they’re-doing. Now, he’s too busy focusing on Lewis’s hands, Lewis’s warm breath near his cock, Lewis’s lips on his thighs — skin that isn’t usually touched this carefully.

Lewis waits until there’s a damp spot of pre-come on his underwear, then kisses the tip of Max’s dick. Max’s head shoots up to look at Lewis. For a second, Lewis meets Max’s eyes as if to ask for permission to continue on, this okay?

Max takes a deep breath, and nods.

Greedily, Lewis licks his lips and moves Max’s underwear down his hips, exposing his dick to Lewis. Lewis smiles and blinks, “God, I can not get used to you.”

“Wh-What?” Max chuckles, anxiously. He feels almost apologetic, as if he had forced Lewis in this situation. A “you don’t have to” is on Max’s tongue, but he’s cut off.

“Cannot believe that you just barged into my room and fucked me,” Lewis mumbles, as he licks Max from base to the tip, and lets his tongue clean off the pre-come that has gathered at the slit. Max groans, almost guttural, unable to form words. Lewis continues, “You’re so bold, sometimes. Everyone must make way for your wishes, including me. On track, off track — never thought you’d have the balls to walk into my room and took what you please. it was delicious. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”

Max is panting here, and Lewis’s barely done anything. His open confession about their first time together is overwhelming him. It’s sweet, and so fucking hot at the same time. He can’t even classify it as dirty talking, and Lewis’s more talking to himself than to Max at this point. They haven’t talked about their first time together since it had happened, and to hear Lewis’s not only very into what they had done, but also had been thinking about it — it’s too much.

Then Lewis’s warm mouth is around Max’s cockhead.

Max feels like he could come on the spot.

His hands tighten in Lewis’s hair, and he feels Lewis smirk around his dick.

Lewis takes his sweet time, taking Max’s cock bit by bit and moving back again, letting his throat adjust to Max’s size as he sinks deeper and deeper. He almost makes it to the hilt, but then he pulls off entirely.

Lewis smirks, “One of these days,” he bites his lip and meets Max’s eyes, “I’m gonna get you on the bed and ride you till you see stars.”

He takes Max in his mouth again and bobs his head in earnest, and Max moans his name to the emptiness of the room, filling it with wet sounds and ‘Lewis— Lewis— ah— Lewis’s.

There’s some mad skill in Lewis’s mouth as he swipes his tongue in complicated ways Max cannot follow, as his hand pumps the base that his mouth no longer reaches when he hollows his cheeks and sucks Max’s cockhead. Max feels heat low in his belly, his thighs shaking and his fingers in Lewis’s hair gripping his scalp. He’s urging Lewis off, “I’m so close— Lewis— Lewis, I swear if you don’t—”

And Lewis grabs Max’s wrist, getting it away from his hair as he moves down to fully deepthroat him, a hand fumbling with his balls and he hums. The motherfucker hums around Max’s dick as if he’s telling him to come deep down his throat.

So Max does.

He arches his back and screams out, “Leeewwiiiiis!” before coming.

Lewis chuckles around Max’s dick, waiting patiently for all the come to spurt down his throat. He moved up just a little bit to get everything. Like the slut he is, he gets off of Max’s dick with his mouth full of come, looks at him smugly and swallows everything down. He licks his lips and smiles proudly. God, he’s insufferable, Max thinks as his dark eyes watch Lewis’s Adam’s apple move up and down.

He winks at Max before sinking his mouth to Max’s dick again and licking it clean. His tongue is soft and warm as Lewis makes sure he gets every last bit of come. When he deems Max clean enough, he places his hands on either side of Max’s hips and crawls into his lap, kissing him passionately.

Max can taste himself on Lewis’s tongue and it’s making him absolutely feral — he licks inside Lewis’s mouth, one hand on Lewis’s chin to keep him in place. He loses himself in the kiss, only briefly moving back to catch his breath, and then dives right back into it. He feels Lewis smile into the kiss.

Max’s other hand finds its way to Lewis’s dick and feels how hard it is under the right fabric of his jeans. His hand covers his dick and his fingers curl around it. Lewis must be aching.

“Max—” Lewis groans, moving back just enough to talk to his lips. Max’s still in a haze from the blowjob so it takes him a second to let his eyes focus on Lewis’s. Lewis continues, “Don’t worry about me.” A tentative hand curls around Max’s wrist to get him off of Lewis’s dick.

Max’s set his mind on it, though, “Shut up— let me—” Max’s hand is more persistent as he grabs Lewis’s dick through the fabric, and even Lewis can’t stop the moan that leaves his mouth, or how he lets his head fall over Max’s shoulder.

Lewis chuckles, “This is supposed to— to be about you, man.”

“You took great care of me, Sir. Now let me do this for you, m’kay?” And Max didn’t miss how Lewis’s dick twitched at the title.

He files it away to use later. For the next time.

Yeah, Max thinks as he opens Lewis’s zipper and gets Lewis’s thick dick out so he can give him a more proper handjob than last time, Who am I gonna fool? I’ll keep doing this for as long as Lewis’ll have me. However self destructive it may be.

“Max—”

“Shut up and kiss me again.”

Lewis’s eyes are focused on Max’s lips when he moves back, and he kisses him immediately. Max kisses Lewis deeper and deeper, to chase the last bit of his own taste that remains on Lewis’s tongue. Max wiggles Lewis out of his pants, until they fall on the ground behind them. Lewis finds his place in Max’s lap — seated with his legs on either side of Max’s legs, slotting over him perfectly. Max smiles in the kiss, and massages his dick. His hand isn’t wet, but Lewis’s messy enough for Max to use his pre-come as lube. Max cannot and will not get over how fucking messy Lewis is. He thumbs the slit and plays with his sensitive cockhead — learning all the hidden gems to Lewis’s body and his reactions. What makes him writhe and crumble above Max? What makes him moan so loudly he’ll be hoarse the next day? Max wants to know it all — wants to know exactly how to pleasure him. Wants to ensure that no one can pleasure Lewis in the ways that Max can.

Lewis moves away from Max’s mouth to breathe on his neck, and then bites down on the muscle behind Max’s ear, and Max hopes it leaves a mark.

Max takes his time, teasing along the length of Lewis’s thick cock. His fingers are as soft as silk, and Lewis’s thighs shake. God, he must be so close to the edge from giving Max that blowjob — the blowjob turned Lewis on, Max realises.

“Max, I swear, I’m so fucking close.”

“You’re making me want to edge you for so long you’ll beg.”

“I’ll beg now if it’ll fill your ego — let me come, arsehole.”

Max smirks and curls his fingers around the base of Lewis’s cock, so he can’t come. He nibbles on Lewis’s earlobe, “How long can you stay on the edge? Two hours? Three?”

“I—ah— I’ve never—”

“I’ll keep you on edge for four hours, baby.”

“We both know we don’t have that time—” Lewis pants into Max’s ear, “Max, next time— let me come now, please.”

And Lewis is just as hopeless for Max, as Max for Lewis, it turns out.

Next time.

If only they had more time.

Please, Lewis said.

Max obliges.

His hand forms a circle and covers Lewis’s dick entirely — “Fuck into my hand then.”

Lewis’s eyes widen, and he looks at Max with a glint in his eyes, as if he’d been waiting for this, as if Max gave him a gift. He positions himself above Max, hands on his shoulders. He thrusts into the circle of Max’s hand, first slowly to test the waters. Slow, as if he can’t believe he’s allowed to do this.

“Yes, baby,” Max says fondly as he watches Lewis gain confidence in his thrusts, taking what he wants, no longer holding back. “My hand covers your entire dick, ah, you’re all mine, huh? Aren’t you, baby? All mine, all mine.”

“Yes- all- all fucking yours, man.” Lewis throws his head back as he fucks into Max’s hand in earnest. “God, your hands.”

“You like my hands, eh? Is that why you’re always so distracted during press conferences? Thinking about my hands opening you up, fingering you nice and slow, my fingers in your mouth and in your ass? On the topic of edging,” Max’s voice is almost business-like, as if this is a normal thing to discuss over breakfast, if it wasn’t for the slight hitch in his breath, “See if I can make you come with my fingers up your ass, untouched and just all in my possession…”

“Fuck!” Lewis screams, hand moving to Max’s hair as he pulls and tugs, and holds onto it for dear life, fucking into Max’s hand erratically, “I want that so much!”

“Be good for me, and come.”

“Max!” Lewis arches his back and comes over Max’s hand. He comes so hard, it’s all over Max’s and Lewis’s chest, making them such a mess to clean up. Lewis slumps over Max, body tired and weakened. Safe, in Max’s hold.

“Thank you.”

Max chuckles, “Anytime.”

After a few moments of catching their breaths, Lewis rises to his feet and reaches for something on the ground. He shows a washcloth, no longer warm but still nice enough to clean their skin. He takes his time cleaning Max’s hand, licking his lips as if he’s contemplating whether or not to clean Max’s hand with his mouth or with the cloth, but he seems to settle for the cloth in the end. Then, he walks around the couch to dispose of the cloth, jeans back around his hips and ready for any press conference or debrief.

Max runs a hand through his hair and tucks his own dick back into his pants too. It’s a wonder he didn’t get hard again with Lewis writhing and shaking above him when Max jerked him off, but he managed. Too focused on Lewis’s high to care about a second of his own. He remains on the couch, just taking in everything that had happened. He figures he can be a minute late to debrief, since it’s been a rough weekend for him.

Two arms curl around Max’s neck and Lewis buries his face in Max’s shoulder, hugging him from behind. Max’s hand immediately finds its way to Lewis’s hair to pet him, and he feels the soft kisses that Lewis places in his neck. “You feeling better?” Lewis asks, lips still pressed to his skin.

Max smiles, and can’t stop the blush from spreading across his cheeks. He is feeling better than he was before. The painful and annoying race was way behind him, Alrgave has passed and he doesn’t have to think about it anymore. He just hopes they won’t return here, because racing at this track just isn’t fun, and Max really hates it.

“I am, yeah. Can’t wait to beat your ass in Spain next week.” Max turns to the side, meeting Lewis’s sleepy eyes and messy hair. Lewis kisses him once, then smiles.

“I’ll give you the winner's treatment after that race, then. If you win.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You’re gonna have to give me the winner's treatment, of course.”

“And if we both lose?”

Lewis laughs and kisses Max’s cheekbone, “Maybe we’ll have to invite the winner with us, then?”

“Sharing you? Oh hell no.”

“Awh, are we a little possessive here?”

Max’s eyes shoot to Lewis’s swollen lips, the messy hair he created, the bruises that are undoubtedly still all over his body, even if they’re fading away and Max will have to renew them soon. He thinks of Lewis moaning Max’s name and falling apart under his touch.

In response to Max’s silence, Lewis grins, “Don’t worry love, I wouldn’t want to share you either.”

“Good,” Max sighs, “I’ll think of something.”

“Me too,” Then Lewis admits, “Cannot stop thinking about you anyways.” He kisses Max’s now dumbstruck face once more and smirks as he walks away, “Catch you in Spain!” and with that, he leaves his driver's home, and a deeply in love Max behind. This is bad — things are starting to get too domestic, too sweet.

Max’s heart clenches as all he can think of is how this is just sex to Lewis, how they aren’t a couple, aren’t even friends with benefits. They don’t even have a title, they’re just two rivals on racing tracks that fuck outside of them. They’re breaking and have broken many rules of their teams already — Max is sure he’s not even allowed to visit Lewis’s driver's home anyway, due to possible strategies or other secrets potentially leaking to Max’s team. They’re probably not allowed to be together, either. And it’s not like they’ve mutually agreed to dating in secret. Hell, they’re not even dating! And yet Lewis looks at him softly, kisses him on his cheekbone, tells him he can’t stop thinking about Max… those are things you tell a lover, not a whatever-the-fuck-they-are. Yet Lewis gives Max a skillful blowjob because he sensed Max needed it, that it would help him. He just did that for him. As if they’ve been boyfriends for so long, they can tell what the other needs and how they need it. This is bad!

Max runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head. This weekend needs to be removed from his memory as soon as humanly possible.

catalunya, spain; may 9, 2021

Sixty out of sixty-six laps were led by Max. But not the last six. And those decide who crosses over the finish line first and wins the race.

And Max didn’t lead the last six laps. He led the first sixty.

His tires were weakened and he barely had grip on the Spanish track. He was trying his fucking best, but the one-stop strategy wasn’t made for their RB16B, the Spanish track, or for their Pirelli tires.

Or for Max.

Max barely had time to grab a glass of water at his driver's home before his team principal knocked on the door to tell him they scheduled debrief early, so everyone could go home after. Max had nodded, asked for a handful of minutes to get into some comfortable clothes, and then followed Christian Horner onto the paddock.

So here he is, sitting in a too-small, brightly lit, temporary office that makes Max briefly wonder if he’s getting sent to a psychiatric hospital. There's a facemask warm on his nose, despite everyone testing negative and the distance between everyone. Max counts approximately fifteen other people. It feels cramped, and he remembers the pre-covid days where offices like this felt too big. Now, with his engineers sitting far behind him, his principal standing in front of him, and his teammate Sergio Perez sitting beside him a safe distance away, it felt far too small.

Max knows what the gist of this debrief will be, and he knows that this debrief is gonna last at least three times what it should.

Christian opens his laptop, and Max tries his very best to refrain from sighing (too loudly).

Sergio, beside him, sits tensely. He knows he was absolutely useless in this race — where normally the second teammate would ease the way for the first teammate to win, Sergio was nowhere to be found on track. Max will be surprised if he even managed to get above top 10.

And, look, Max’s known Sergio for a long time — nice guy, decent driver. He’s been in Formula One longer than Max has.

Sergio has a very clear role in team Red Bull Racing: Help Max Get The World Championship.

His own success, the races he’ll maybe win or the points he’ll get aren’t relevant — he’s merely there to make Bottas and Hamilton sweat, to pressure them, so that Max can drive a nice race and bring home victory. If that means Sergio is second, cool! If he’ll be fourth, also cool! Just don’t be in Max’s way, and help him to victory.

It’s cruel, but talent and money get you far. Only talent and no money means that success will take some years, and only money and not enough talent will mean second-driver.

Bottas, Hamilton’s teammate, is a decent driver. But he’s not courageous, quick, or smart. On track, that is. Which results in him getting second place — best car on the track but no talent still doesn’t mean first place.

Frankly, it doesn’t even mean second, because Max with his slightly-slower car and a whole lot of talent gets him second place.

There's a wave of concern and complaints headed in Sergio’s direction, and Max is staring into the void.

He just has to sit this out, even if everything that’s discussed benefits him. He can’t summon the mental energy to listen. He’ll read the record of this meeting on his plane home, or something.

Max’s phone vibrates.

Despite being as polite as he is, he can’t fight his curiosity. He shouldn’t check! That’s not nice to the people who put hours into preparing this debrief and have all their funky numbers and analytics in colorful spreadsheets and tables.

But also, he’s curious.

Someone mentions Hamilton, but Max doesn't even catch the context.

For a brief moment he lets his mind wander to Lewis — his skin beautifully dark against Max’s pale hands, his thighs shaking around Max’s waist when Max opened him up, his mouth around Max’s cock, taking care of him.

Max’s phone vibrates again.

If it wasn’t for this debrief, he’d have gone to Lewis again, curious to see what they’ll come up with this time. He knows they need to talk — there’s a blanket of tension around and in between them, a constant reminder of words unsaid. They need to set boundaries, make choices, and make their intentions clear.

But on the other hand, the pure unknown, the spontaneity and creativity, the unspoken trust is what makes this so exciting.

And hey, Max’s not the talkative one. If they’re cruisin’ on this path smoothly, he’ll cruise along. If Lewis ‘heart-on-his-sleeve’ Hamilton is fine with them Not Talking, then so is Max. Why would he shatter this gorgeously fabricated fairytale they share, when he can instead enjoy it?

Feelings. The answer is feelings.

And even those, Max can choose to ignore.

So Max ignores.

His phone vibrates again.

Max does a quick scan around him — his team engineer and team principal are chatting with each other, there’s soft muttering from the mathematicians as they exchange complicated formulas and numbers, and Sergio’s team engineer is sharing some notes with Sergio himself. No one is paying attention to Max.

Max gets his phone out, leans back in his chair, and hopes no one reads along over his shoulder.

[Lewis Hamilton]: hey
[Lewis Hamilton]: where are you
[Lewis Hamilton]: you weren't at your trailer

Max smiles. Lewis’s been looking for him. It makes his heart do an annoying and embarrassing thing that resembles a flutter, but he ignores it promptly. He types back:

miss me? [Max]

Lewis is typing back immediately — he must’ve left the chat open as he waited for Max’s reaction.

[Lewis Hamilton]: shut up, drake

you got a thing for rappers, Lewis? [Max]

[Lewis Hamilton]: no, just tall Dutch f1 drivers with slower cars and terrible, terrible strategy

Max shakes his head and bites his lip to hide the growing smile from the people around him. He does not wanna catch their attention, let alone think of explaining this.

Awh, Lewis, a crush on the paddock! I wonder who your mysterious love is.
Bet you can’t stop thinking about them.
That’s so embarrassing. [Max]

[Lewis Hamilton]: shut up, Max.

He takes a deep breath, then confesses,

i was planning on visiting you after debrief [Max]
didn’t know u were so damn impatient [Max]
am not surprised tho [Max]

He sees the three dots moving around and around, the speech bubble fading out of view as if to bully him. Max looks around the office once — nothing in the room has changed, people are still chatting with each other, and Max really thinks his presence contributes nothing at all. He really wishes he could stand up and leave, heading straight for Lewis’s trailer. Just- uh- well, the thought ‘to be in his presence’ sounds awfully lot like he’s crushing on the guy. And though he kinda is, he doesn’t really want to acknowledge that. He’s been crushing on the guy for forever and it’s only gotten worse since this whole rivals-with-benefits thing started. He doesn’t want feelings to be involved, so he’ll just… push ‘em down, pretend they aren’t there. As long as they get to have this.

He’s staring at the wall when his phone buzzes, no longer hidden in his pants but open in his hand.

[Lewis Hamilton]: take your time, segundo lugar, i know ur good at that

did you open google translate for me? Oh, Lewis, it’s almost romantic [Max]

[Lewis Hamilton]: it means second place, it’s not a petname.
[Lewis Hamilton]: would you like a petname, baby boy?

That does nothing to Max. Absolutely nothing. He’s completely unaffected by sir Lewis Carl Davidson Hamilton calling him baby boy, even over text. He’s not at all hearing some sort of daydream version of Lewis hovering over his shoulder, whispering ‘baby boy’ into his ear, while everyone can see him standing so close. Max doesn’t blush, either.

Which is why Christian frowns at him, “You okay? You’re all—” He gestures at his face, “—Red.”

“Fine!” Max says, voice slightly too high-pitched to be convincing. He looks around him and finds a bottle of water, graciously taking large sips from it. Christian turns away from him, back to the conversation he was having. Max lets out a sigh.

[Lewis Hamilton]: either that did something you don’t wanna admit, or you hate me now.
[Lewis Hamilton]: where’d you go

am in the middle of a debrief, in case you forgot [Max]

[Lewis Hamilton]: oh, right
[Lewis Hamilton]: anyways, i want you to be here. It’s so quiet without you

you mean without your moans? [Max]

[Lewis Hamilton]: well, yeah. I can hear those, but it’s not the same

Max frowns. Where the fuck is this going? Is Lewis flirting with him? There’s a dangerous game they’re playing — every moment they’ve been together, alone, has immediately led to sex. Now, they’re not together, and yet Lewis’s texting him like he really misses Max? Like the tradition they’ve formed over the past few races has become a newfound routine that Lewis relies on? This is all very confusing.

Another brief look around the office tells him that he can focus more on the questionable presence of Lewis through his phone, than the conversation around him.

[Lewis Hamilton]: can i confess something?
[Lewis Hamilton]: woa can’t believe this is easier through text but here goes before i regret this
[Lewis Hamilton]: i have not been able to stop thinking about you and your lips and your confidence and your boldness and the way you just take what you want without hesistance

Max smiles fondly at his phone, pleased that Lewis’s feeling safe enough to be vulnerable with him.

Which, at the same time, is absolutely frightening.

Max pushes aside any hopeful and dumb thoughts — there’s no way in hell Lewis is falling for him, or crushing on him. He’d never, he can get a million better people from all around him. Hell, on track alone, there’s at least three people Max can point at that are a better fit with Lewis.

And yet, Lewis curled his arms around Max, kissed his neck softly and told him he didn’t want to share Max with anyone. Yet Lewis is saying, for the second time, that he cannot stop thinking about Max.

Max shakes his head. He shouldn’t let feelings get to his head, maybe Lewis’s just sexting.

He types back:

What would you do if i was there, and not stuck in this meeting? [Max]

[Lewis Hamilton]: oh, easy

And then the traitor takes the shape of a grey speech bubble, its three dots continuously moving around and teasing Max. There’s a heat in Max’s belly, and his muscles are tight as he awaits the response. It feels like Lewis’s typing the entire declaration of independence, and Max grits his teeth through it.

In the meantime, he catches wind of the conversations around him. It’s exactly as he predicted — Sergio’s contributions haven’t been as expected, Sergio apologizes and promises he’ll do better next race, having learned more about the car after these few months. Another group talks about Max’s strategy, how a one-stop was too ambitious, how Lewis has publicly said that he’s “learned a lot about Max, more than in other races” and how they wonder what it means.

From time to time, Max hums along and shares his opinion. His contributions are shallow, but he blames it on being tired post-race. Every last bit of adrenaline has left his body, save for the soft thrumming of his heart as he waits for the buzz of his phone.

It buzzes, but it’s a former F1 driver, messaging him about how the race was exciting and that he wished Max had won too.

Max’ll respond later.

He falls into conversation again, and is halfway through a sentence when his phone vibrates in his pocket. Max leans back, ankle propped up on his knee. He sees that Lewis typed him a damn essay.

[Lewis Hamilton]: ok here goes nothing – you’ve fucked me on the counter here before, which was hot, but it was over before i realised it. That handjob in italy was also over before i could blink, and when i sucked you off in portugal, i lost the taste in my mouth way quicker than i’d like. So. I. Want you. Longer. You’ve had your time demanding things and taking what you want, now it’s my turn. I’d love to get you on the bed and ride you – just have your dick inside me one more time before i get my dick inside of you. Has to happen soon or later. But i know your’re kinda bummed over this race now. Just want you to sit back n relax, as i kiss your pretty face, mark you up – your skin looks so blank without marks like your much prettier with my purple marks on your neck, it’s honestly disappointing that i haven’t gotten my mouth on ur neck long enough for it to last yet. Purple is a gorgeous color. It’s my favorite, you know? you can just let your muscles melt into the mattress as i take care of you. I’ll kiss away your worries of this race, maybe suck your dick again and make you come twice. It felt so good when you came inside me, kinda want that again. Anyway, I want to open myself up for you and then ride your dick till you see stars.
[Lewis Hamilton]: i just think that’d be cool.

Max’s jaw drops. He rereads the message like seven times, only sending a short ‘woah, okay' to let Lewis know he’s here. His mind is running with the mental image of both a very naked Lewis in his arms, riding him and driving him absolutely insane, and laying on his back while Lewis works his fingers inside of him, prepping him to take Lewis’ thick dick. Then Lewis fucking him sharply and roughly, or maybe soft and slow.

Either way, Max has to run a hand through his hair, adjust his pants some more, and grab another sip of water before he can even start to think of a response.

He bites back the low moan that forms in his throat and masks it with a cough. Faces turn in his direction, but he waves them away — “Choked on- wat-water.” His face is red as he turns to his screen again.

His thumbs hover over the keyboard, unsure what to send back. He doesn’t know if anything his brain can come up with will be remotely close to how hot Lewis’s essay was. There’s a pressing question unrelated to anything Lewis said in the back of his mind, and Max gives in, sending him what he wants to know so desperately.

Are you touching yourself right now? [Max]

[Lewis Hamilton]: yea… lazily, not really going anywhere, not without you here

Max smirks, an idea starting to take shape. He checks the printed schedule that lay abandoned on the table before him, in search of the time of his flight. He does quick math in his head and counts if he can visit Lewis before he leaves Spain.

His phone buzzes:

[Lewis Hamilton]: attachment

Max opens the file, but not before leaning back a little more and ensuring no one will look over his shoulder with him. Though he doesn’t know what it is, any image Lewis sends can show proof of how they’ve been chatting, and he wants to avoid that as much as possible. Sharing secrets about his car or strategy with Lewis would only be detrimental to Max himself — he’d never let this little thing they have infiltrate his professionalism and job, let alone his chances at the world championship. He wants that more than anything. But, if people were to find out they’ve been chatting, who knows what’ll happen. People talk. People make up things. Rumours spread. Lies spread. Eh, Max wants to prevent that from happening. For himself, andfor Lewis.

The image is not what Max had expected Lewis to send to him, well, ever.

The motherfucker sent him a dick pic. Like he was a fucking fuckboy adding childhood friends to Snapchat after years of silence.

And god dammit it worked.

Max blinked a lot of times, eyes glued to the image. He could see Lewis laying on his couch, one leg dangling off, his left hand shiny from lube, curling around the base off of his dick. The pre-come at the tip of Lewis’s gorgeous dick glitters and Max licks his lips at it. He feels his abdomen clench with want, filling with heat as he stares more and more, learning the details and committing every vein and birthmark to memory. He’s seen this beautiful dick in real life before, but it was always rushed. And now, despite being in a busy office room with too-bright lights and noisy people getting off-topic and wasting Max’s time, Max can’t help but take his time to admire Lewis’s dick. The dick he’s held before, the dick he wants to taste, to feel inside him.

His mind shoots back to Lewis’s message, his words, his indirect promises, Max’s wishes… god, he really wants to get out of here as soon as possible.

Christian interrupts his train of thought when he pats Max on the shoulder. He sits down at the table, joining the small group of people. Everyone here is directly linked to Max and Max’s achievements on track — there’s his engineer, a few mathematicians who work at the head of his strategies, and now there’s Christian, his boss. He starts the conversation by saying, again, how well Max did on track, how his tire management was as excellent as they expected, and how he splendidly led those sixty laps. Then he follows with a summary of his conversations with Sergio, how he talked sternly to him about his (lack of) achievements. How Sergio promised to do better.

The conversation’s important for Max to follow, to know what his team is up to. He’s eternally grateful for the transparency in his team, and how they update him on even the lesser-relevant things.

But right now, he really just wants to go home and sleep some.

Or head to Lewis’s, just to, ehm, chat.

Lewis — oh, he hasn’t even responded to Lewis yet, too busy with the conversation he was forced to be part of. Forced, well, it literally is his job… that he signed up for… that he gets paid for… Get a grip, Verstappen, Max thinks.

And yet he checks his phone.

There’s a trail of messages from Lewis – they go from worrying (“Max? You still here?”) to apologetic (“Did i step out of line, I’m so sorry - I didn’t mean to”) to frustrated (“Are you cockblocking me? Here i was thinking of fucking you — no, you’ll make me come and then leave”) back to worrying (“Max, respond, man. This is painful.”).

Max smiles fondly as he reads Lewis go through all five stages of grief in the span of fifteen minutes.

Instead of letting it shine through, he sends,

Open yourself up. Don’t come. [Max]
wait for me. [Max]

If anyone saw Max running over the paddock, away from the office and into the park of campers, they didn't say anything.

If anyone saw him running to Lewis' house too, they didn't say anything.

Max doesn't really care, to be honest. But it does surprise him, given how much attention is usually on them.

The media is so focused on the two of them, how every Instagram post or tweet can be filled with rage toward the other driver. There’s photos made of their faces merged together, a small shove is made out to be an anger-fueled move to let out frustration. The official FIA is making newsletters focusing just on their rivalry and the battles they fight on track. In the past, rivaling drivers have had off-track fights with one another, and the media loves to blow up drama. And now that they seek it, but now that there’s so much potential for said drama, they don’t get any.

Because in reality, outside the track, Lewis and Max have nothing but respect for each other. Always have. After all, numbers one and two share a podium together.

And a bed, but that aside.

Max knocks on Lewis’s door with a small shake of his fingers. He’s nervous, yeah, but also very fucking horny. All his thoughts have vanished, his mind filled with nothing but white noise and a low, chanting Lewis, gotta go to Lewis, Lewis is waiting for me, Lewis… He takes a steadying breath after he hears, “Come in.”

And, look, Max had told Lewis to get ready. He’d told him to open himself up and wait for Max.

He just... Didn’t expect to…

He didn’t expect to walk into Lewis’ home and be met with him sitting on the couch, on his knees, legs spread wide, dick achingly hard and leaking against his belly, and riding a dildo. It is a little bit too much for Max. Max feels like he could come on the spot from it.

He must have uttered some animalistic growl, because Lewis bites his lips and rolls his hips over the dildo, eyes dark as he scans Max’s figure. He smirks when he meets Max’s eyes again, and cocks his head in the direction of his bedroom.

Max can’t move — the image of Lewis like that was just too much. He feels like the mere brush of fabric against his dick would make him come, so he doesn’t dare move.

Lewis raises an eyebrow, then smugly lets himself fall so that he is on hands and knees, facing Max. One hand behind him, and he pulls the dildo out of his ass, moaning desperately all the while. He blinks a few times, climbs to his feet on trembling legs, and walks over to Max to drag him down by his collar.

Lewis kisses Max roughly, messily. Open-mouthed with all teeth and tongue. He groans into the kiss, voice rough, “Those were the longest twenty minutes of my fucking life. Don’t ever do that to me again.”

Max looks at Lewis’s lips while Lewis talks. It takes him a few seconds to recover from… Well, recover from everything that happened since he’d entered Lewis’s home. Then he smiled at Lewis, “Thought you wanted me to edge you for hours and hours?”

“Yeah,” Lewis, in between kissing Max, starts walking the two of them back and back — heading to his bedroom, “When you’re with me and I can beg to come. Not this— not with you far away and busy, where you won’t— won’t hear me scream out your name.”

Lewis looks up at Max and spins them around, then pushes Max onto the bed.

Max, surprised by the movement, lets out an “Oumph!” He lands on his back, then props himself up to lean on his elbows, admiring the very naked, very hot Lewis before him.

Lewis rolls his eyes at Max’s sound, almost annoyed that he’s surprised. He crawls onto Max’s lap, and busies himself with Max’s zipper. Max lets out a low moan, “You are so needy, holy shit. Can’t go one fucking race without my dick, huh?”

“Crawl back, arsehole, against the headboard.”

“What—” Max crawls back anyway and gets a pillow behind him to lean against the headboard. Lewis positions himself above Max — one hand on his shoulders, the other silky soft on his dick to guide him into Lewis. “Oh, you wanna hold me?” Max chuckles before he can stop himself, “What, Hamilton? Catching feelings?”

Max hates himself. He really does. If anything, he is the motherfucker catching feelings.

But all Max’s words get ripped from his tongue when Lewis slams down, immediately bottoming out. His ass swallows Max’s cock fully, enveloping Max in sudden warmth, and Max can't help himself but groan so loudly. Lewis' ass is less tight than the first time they were together, but still tight enough for Max to grit his teeth. Lewis joins him, feeling filled with something way better than a dildo – Max’s distantly aware that anyone passing by Lewis’s home could've heard them.

It’s way too rough to be really pleasurable — sure, Lewis’s ass was lubed up as wet as he could possibly be, but Max’s dick wasn’t. They were too horny, too needy, too caught up in their own haze to care.

Lewis’s arms curl around Max’s shoulders, clutching him tightly to his chest.

And Max — well, Max gets his arms around Lewis’s waist, holding him tightly.

It’s more intimate than any friends with benefits could possibly be. Let alone professional rivals.

Lewis rides Max roughly, his movements filled with haste, the need to come. Every time he slams down on Max’s hips, he whines. He groans and moans, fingers shaking around Max’s shoulders as he clutches him tighter and tighter. It’s not as smooth as it would have been, had Max’s dick been lubed too. Neither of them cares, Lewis grits his teeth through the resistance. The drag of Max’s bare skin into Lewis has him feeling every last bit of him, and he’s just safe enough to hurt neither of them. Lewis moans, saying that it’s almost too much for him to have Max, “But, God, I’m so happy to have you filling me up again, ah-”.

Max looks up at Lewis and captures his lips in a kiss — sloppy, wet and rough, but also passionate and filled with desire. He gets a hand around Lewis’s cock, and it doesn't take much to turn him into a whimpering mess. Lewis’s cock is leaking steadily onto his hand, messy as always. Max knows Lewis is super close from the edging he’s done to himself, all that touching for at least half an hour now. And he still hadn’t been allowed to come. Lewis is digging crescent moons into Max’s shoulder blades, and Max is putting his last bit of stamina into marking Lewis back up again — sucking over the fading marks. You know, in case Lewis forgets who he belongs to.

Who makes him feel like this.

Before Max starts thinking of how he challenges Lewis professionally, emotionally, and sexually, he bites down. Max shoves thoughts about how he's managed to wedge himself into nearly every part of Lewis's day-to-day life and how Lewis only seems to want him more, to sink his teeth into the thin skin of Lewis's collarbone, then laps his tongue over the skin some more. He kisses lower and lower, exploring Lewis’s chest with his mouth, teeth and tongue, tracing the lines of his compass tattoo. The more he learns about Lewis’s skin, about what makes him moan louder, what makes him move his hands to Max’s hair to pull, the less he’ll have to think about Lewis’ and his own emotions.

All it takes is a soft burst of breath over his nipple and Lewis’s entire body starts shaking. He begs ‘please, please’ softly and Max has his right nipple in between his teeth. He rolls the bud around while his other hand finds Lewis’s left nipple. He plays with both Lewis’s nipples at once, then switches them up, sucking and nibbling Lewis’s right nipple and rolling with his left, now wet, nipple in between his fingers.

Lewis stops shoving down onto Max’s dick, and instead slowly rolls his hips in shaky motions.

He’s so close. Max whispers in his ear, “Next time I have you, I’ll bend you in half and fuck your lungs out, make you beg for it. Edge you for so long you’ll cry for it. But right now we don’t have time. So come for me, sweetheart,” and that does it.

Max feels how Lewis’ hole clenches around his dick, how his thighs shake in Max’s lap. Lewis’ mouth is wet on Max’s shoulder, still covered by his shirt. He didn’t take the time to undress fully, more concerned with giving Lewis what he needed — Max’s dick, and that’s all that matters.

That’s all that’ll ever matter.

Lewis rolls his hips again and kisses Max. He’s still spurting the last bits of come out of him, and all over Max’s shirt. Despite the painful realisation swirling around in his head, Max can’t help but moan into the kiss. Lewis bites Max’s lower lip, as if he’s hungry for more.

Max huff's a laugh, looking down, “How am I gonna get back to my trailer like this?”

“Take a sweater from me, ” Lewis responds immediately, then gets his hands on Max’s cheeks, cupping his face. Max admires all of Lewis and how he looks so fucking good — dark, tattooed skin, abdomen clenching as he rolls his hips, eyes shining, lip worried in between his teeth. As if he sensed how Max admires him, he smiles (and does he blush? Eh, Max’s mind must be playing tricks) and kisses Max’s forehead. He drags his lips to Max’s ear, then whispers, “Fill me up, pretty boy.”

And look, Max might be doubting how sincere and loving Lewis really is, but that doesn’t take away that he absolutely loves these nicknames.

Lewis’s giving him nicknames.

And not exactly the ones you’d share with the world, huh?

Max throws his head back and grunts low. He vaguely registers Lewis kissing his throat and sucking a mark, but his vision goes white with the need to come. He thrusts into Lewis, harder and harder. His hands are tight on Lewis’s hips, undoubtedly leaving bruises. He can tell Lewis is clenching down on his cock some more, and the sudden tightness has Max groaning. He looks at Lewis again, and sees how he’s looking so debauched. His hair is a mess, his neck is littered with marks and the skin around his nipples looks ruined. And it’s all by Max’s hands, Max’s teeth, Max’s tongue. By Max.

The realisation makes him possessive, the marking addictive. He grunts when he sees Lewis’s eyes meeting his. There’s a glitter in his dark eyes telling him to come. Inviting him. Max gives in and pants as he fills Lewis’s hole with his come. Lewis keeps rolling his hips, through whines and bitten lips. He must be hypersensitive to everything, and yet he keeps milking as much as he can from Max. He kisses Max’s mouth. Max can barely kiss back, still breathing out as he comes and comes.

Lewis is smiling brightly, “You know… I have a plug, uh, in the nightstand drawer.”

“You—” Max takes a breath. What in the world did he do to be gifted with such a man, shaped perfectly for Max's desires and fantasies. Perfectly for every aspect of his life.

Lewis wiggles his hips enthusiastically – Max groans low again – and nods, "Yeah, I, uh, saw how last time you were almost sad to see your come slipping out... So, I saw this one when I was in Italy. I had snuck out to the city for some air after the race. I had you in my mind and... And then I passed this sex shop, and I walked in out of curiousity. I also grabbed us some handcuffs, a cockring and a blindfold. For, the— the future, maybe. If you're up for that?"

If Max hadn't literally just come down from his orgasm, he would've come again. "You've been planning ahead?"

"I have, yeah. If I'm overstepping- I-"

"No, no it's okay."

Lewis beams at that, smiling brightly. He kisses Max on his forehead, "I'm gonna grab it now, okay?"

"Yeah, okay."

Later on, after many hours of overthinking and silent pining, Max'll realise that this was the moment where Lewis waited for him to talk. Waited for him to say something about boundaries, labels, or whatever. But Max didn't – Max would never talk about feelings, let alone start that conversation. This was also the moment where Max will later come to realise that Lewis knows exactly what he wants from Max, where he decides to try dropping hints to gauge Max's interest.

With the plug inside him, Lewis waggles out of the bedroom and comes back seconds later, sweater and washcloth in hand. He cleans most of his come off of Max's Red Bull polo, and hands his sweater to Max to put on. The sweater smells like Lewis's cologne, faded washing detergent, and sweat. He must've worn this on the plane, or something. It's just a bit too big for Lewis, he tells Max, but it fits Max perfectly.

After getting redressed, Max nods with the doorknob in his hand, "I guess I'll catch you in Monaco, huh?"

"You live there too, right? Can't I swing by, maybe?"

"I—" Max's eyes widen. Lewis Hamilton... In his home. His rival with benefits, absolute hottie, and long-time crush on track asks to swing byMax's house. Max scratches behind his ear, blushing, "I hope we have time for that."

Lewis's eyes light up as he stands on his tip-toes to kiss Max's mouth, "I hope so too. Catch your plane, pretty boy."

"You too, babe."

"Babe," Lewis whispers, barely loud enough for Max to hear. He has his lip between his teeth again as Max walks away from his driver's home and onto the paddock.

Wearing Lewis's sweater.

Maybe, just maybe, losing a race isn't so bad after all. Of course, he'd rather beat Hamilton's ass than lose to him. He'd rather catch the world championship than see it slip through his fingers. But it doesn't affect his mood that much, not as much as it did in his first few seasons. He's been around long enough to deal with losing, to focus on improvement, to learn.

His life isn't that bad.

After all, sixty out of sixty-six laps were led by Max.

Max has a terrible idea.

He’s at home, in complete euphoria over winning the race — Monaco! as a win!. The media is filled with his success, how he led almost seventy-eight out of seventy-eight laps (including the last six! He led nearly all of them!), and has now passed Hamilton in the world championship. This was not Hamilton’s weekend, clearly. He qualified seventh, and due to the first on track not starting, he ended sixth. He didn't overtake anyone, he couldn’t because Monaco is ruthless like that.

With Hamilton finishing sixth, and Max winning the race, Max has received enough points in the championship to lead. Sure, there are like eighteen more races to go, but hey, small victories. If he keeps this up — which he probably won’t, because his car is slightly slower than Hamilton’s and Mercedes is known to fight back even harder right after a loss — he might become world champion after all!

But he knows what it feels like to lose, too.

He knows what it feels like to live up to something and then have it slip through your fingers for whatever reason. To want to win, to know you can, and yet to fail.

While scrolling through Instagram, he passes a video of Hamil- Lewis speaking to Jack Plooij. The reporter asks if there are any lessons Lewis will take with him on to the next races. Max can hear the salty tone covering every word Lewis says when he tells the reporter that no, there’s nothing for him to learn.

Then the reporter asks about his team, if they have something to learn.

And despite the facemask, Max can tell Lewis is clenching his jaw as he nods, telling the reporter that his team does have something to learn for the upcoming races.

Max shakes his head. There’s nothing more painful than losing because something or someone in your team fucked up.

This is when he gets his terrible idea.

He opens the chat with Lewis, a previous ‘good luck’ greeting him again.

Without thinking, he types and sends his message.

His address.

Almost instantaneously, he gets a response.

[Lewis Hamilton]: on my way

Max takes a deep breath and sinks deeper into the couch. Time to show Lewis Hamilton, his professional rival and personal something-with-benefits, his home.

It took Lewis ten minutes to get to Max’s home, which means he either had been waiting or had good luck in traffic. And, seeing how it’s only a few hours after the race and there’s still people all over the streets celebrating or venting, Max doubts Lewis had any luck in traffic.

There’s a knock on the door, and Max opens it wide. It’s weird to have this reversal of roles, as usually he is the one visiting Lewis. The wait had been annoying and painful. He’d been anxiously looking around his house, contemplating cleaning up some piles of clothes but deciding against it. Lewis’ll have to take his apartment the way Max lives in it. It’s not like Lewis' his boyfriend, anyways. So like, uh, Max doesn’t have to clean his room. That’d be weird. Right? Right.

Lewis visibly brightens when Max opens his door. Max barely has time to drink him in before Lewis jumps onto him and Max has to respond quickly to wrap his arms around Lewis' waist. Lewis' legs are hooked around Max’s waist and Max laughs into Lewis' neck, closing the door behind them.

Lewis kisses Max’s neck, and it’s way too soft for whatevers-with-benefits, Max decides.

He doesn’t mind, though.

Max chuckles, walking into his house and to his couch, “Do you want something to drink?”

“I want you to eat me out, man.”

“Oh-okay,” Max huffs a laugh, his voice slightly strained at the sudden turn.

“I want to forget about this race as soon as possible, and I want you to fuck me again.”

Max moves back, searching Lewis' eyes. Lewis looks at him, trying but failing to look serious and nonplussed. But the tips of his ears are red and there’s mischief and desire sparkling in his eyes. Max shakes his head fondly, “Let me guess, my knight in shining armor wants to be edged too?”

Lewis bites his lip and looks back at Max with bigger eyes, “Sounds like a great idea.”

Max walks them to his bedroom — a big, round room with his king-sized bed in the middle, a closet and a cabinet on the same wall as the entrance. The other walls form one big window, capturing Max’s room in a bright orange hue. He thinks about how bad this weekend has been for Lewis, and how he deserves a nice night where he doesn’t have to think of anything.

How Max should take care of him, the same way Lewis took care of Max.

Max lays Lewis down on the bed, gently.

Lewis stretches himself, arms above his head. His shirt hitches up and shows a slight hint of his belly, and Max fights the urge to lean down and kiss it. Lewis looks around, scanning Max’s bedroom, and his eyes get stuck on a pile of clothes. Max follows his gaze, and sees how Lewis' own sweater lays neatly folded on the pile. Before Max can comment on how he plans to give it back when Lewis leaves, Lewis turns back to Max. There’s a sheer, tired glaze over his eyes, but it does very little to hide the lust he holds.

Max bites his lip, looking at this wonderful man below him. His face turns serious, “How much time do you have?”

“Didn't you say you would edge me for, what was it, three hours?” Lewis teases. He moves his hands under his head and looks so fucking cocky, Max can’t wait to make him forget his own name and lose his voice.

He remains silent.

Lewis rolls his eyes, “My flight leaves tomorrow morning.”

“You-”

“I could stay all night if you let me.”

Max blinks a few times. Lewis delayed his flight to stay with me? He coughs, shaking away the thought of how domestic and relationship-y this is. He’ll see if Lewis stays the night, depending on where this will take them. Max changes the subject before it gets too touchy-feely for him, “Have you ever been edged? Or edged yourself?”

“N-no, never. I’ve done a lot of things, but… not edging.”

“You’re not gonna last three fucking hours, Lew.”

Again, just like the last time they were together, Lewis whispers the nickname Max used, “Lew…” Max thinks he sees a blush on his cheeks when Lewis smirks, “Is that a challenge?”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Kiss it away then.”

“It’s a character trait, ” Max counters, leaning down and crawling over Lewis' body — a body he’s starting to get familiar with, “I doubt my kissing is gonna do much.”

Lewis smiles brightly and wraps his arms around Max’s neck, his fingers tapping softly on Max’s shoulder blades. He muses, “You can always try.”

Max gives in, unable to fight this man’s charms, and kisses a trail along his jawline.

The idea that they’ll have more time than they’ve ever had is unreal to him. In his deepest desires, it’s all Max has ever wanted. To have Lewis laid out before him, to kiss every part of his skin, learn what makes him sigh and moan and tug Max’s hair. To take his time with Lewis, and do whatever he wanted. Coming is not a goal, it’s pleasure that they seek. And pleasure is what Max can give.

Lewis' hands find Max’s cheek and he moves Max to meet his eyes, then kisses him. First softly, but gradually more heated, more passionate. Lewis bites Max’s bottom lip and Max can’t hide his smile. Lewis' eyes are hooded, focused on Max’s lips.

He looks absolutely gorgeous like this.

Lewis licks into Max’s mouth, and Max finds a way to take his time. He tastes every bit of Lewis' mouth, lets his hands wander from beside Lewis' head to his sides, fingertips soft as silk as they trace their path along the fabric of Lewis' shirt.

Lewis arches his back and Max gets his hands under Lewis' shirt. He hooks his fingers under the hem, heaves it over Lewis' head and throws it somewhere into the void of his bedroom. Nothing seems to exist outside the bed, its sheets, and Lewis. Max moves away from Lewis' mouth, and admires all of Lewis' skin before him. Lewis’ hands have fallen from Max’s face, to his arms. He shifts slightly under Max’s gaze, and Max smiles, “You’re gorgeous.”

“I-”

“Really, so fucking pretty. Look at you, all laid out and wanting. God… All for me.” The words leave Max’s mouth with very little permission from his brain. He bites his lip to stop himself from praising Lewis even more. After all, this is just sex to Lewis. Right?

Lewis smiles and there's a slight blush on his cheeks. He whispers, “All for you,” and traces his fingers over Max’s arms.

There’s that shameless mischief-and-lust-cocktail colouring Lewis' eyes again, and it becomes peculiarly pornographic when he bites his lip.

Max’s arms almost give in.

Just sex, right?

Max moves down and kisses Lewis' collarbone to stop himself from thinking this through. He's just here to enjoy himself, and so is Lewis. He sucks a mark where Lewis' neck meets his shoulder, sucking hard and long, making sure this will be seen tomorrow. He moves lower and kisses everywhere on Lewis' torso; every nook and cranny, every imperfection, every birthmark, every dip of skin. He kisses Lewis' hip bones, his breath awfully close to Lewis' hardening dick.

Impatience is in Lewis' nature, and yet Max hasn't heard a single complaint as he worships the body below him.

Max looks up at Lewis, an eyebrow raised as he curls his fingers around the waistband of Lewis' jeans. He wordlessly asks the question, as if it’s the very first time they're together. He asks for all those times he couldn't, and times in the future where he can’t.

And Lewis nods, smiles, and pets Max’s hair. A confirmation just as silent, and just as worthy.

Lewis moves his hips up so Max can move his pants down, kissing every newly revealed inch of skin, tracing each part with his lips, his tongue. Max pulls back to look at Lewis – really look at him. He takes in all of Lewis' thick, hard cock. The dick he’s looked at before, held before, seen through a photograph and jerked off to before. But never had he had the time to just look and admire the real thing like this before. There’s precome pearling up at the slit of his cock, a taunting temptation Max cannot resist.

Max reaches for Lewis' dick but is stopped by a very soft hand around his wrist. He looks up, frozen.

“Get your clothes off too, before you do anything.” Lewis' voice is soft, slightly hoarse from making out and teasing alone.

Max nods and gets off of the bed to take his shirt off.

“No— wait– let me,” Lewis reaches for Max, gets on his knees before him, hands around Max’s shirt. He smiles, almost insecure, before he pulls Max’s shirt off of him. Then he gets his hands on the waistband of Max’s sweatpants. He places a kiss to Max’s chest, right on his sternum, while moving the fabric down to Max’s knees. Max steps out of it, discarding the pants somewhere on the ground. Lewis leaves Max’s briefs on as he lies back down.

Max follows him, kissing his chest, his breast, his nipples. He laps his tongue over the sensitive buds, and Lewis arches his back to chase the feeling. He moans and writhes under Max's touch, his noises loud in the echoing bedroom. Max huffs a warm laugh. If there’s one thing he’s so glad he learned about Lewis, it’s how sensitive he is. It’s like every sensation his skin experiences is ten times as exciting, pleasurable, and hot compared to any other human being Max’s been with.

“God, babe, you’re so loud,” Max says to Lewis' skin, while moving lower and lower, “Good thing there’s no one here to hear us, no one to worry about.”

Lewis' breath hitches as he looks down at Max. Max meets his eyes, winking, “Be as loud as you want.”

“Fuck,” Lewis groans, throwing his head back again.

Max gets his hands around Lewis' thighs and spreads him, turning his focus to Lewis' hole. He licks his lips and moves closer, pressing a soft kiss to Lewis' inner thigh. Lewis' hands move to Max’s hair, tangling his fingers into the strands. Max smirks, then places a soft kiss to Lewis' hole, feeling it flutter under his breath. He licks against the rim of Lewis' hole, feels how it stutters against his tongue, and licks some more. His undivided attention goes to giving Lewis as much pleasure as he's capable of, so he makes it as wet and messy as he can, flattening his tongue as he licks Lewis open, gets him wet. Lewis' hole tenses and relaxes, and he whispers a soft, “Max.”

Max takes his time – he licks all of Lewis' perineum, tastes every inch of skin. He makes Lewis' ass as wet as he can be, until it shines with his spit. Lewis twitches at the sound of every wet suck, with every sloppy lick, his chest is heaving steadily, his fingers scratching Max’s scalp in a soft and satisfying way. Max loves it when people play with his hair, sue him.

He especially loves it when Lewis plays with his hair, so he can look into the mirror and say, “Yeah, Lewis Hamilton fucked up my hair because I was eating his ass,” and he’ll have to believe it.

Max can tell Lewis is getting more relaxed. The tension he had in his legs and shoulders has faded as he sinks deeper into the mattress. He’s looking up at the ceiling as Max works his tongue into Lewis. He’s panting, yeah, but Max knows he’s relaxing. His worries of the race fade away bit by bit as Max starts fucking his tongue into Lewis' hole. Lewis' legs are spread wide, and Max can't help but think how he looks like a needy slut for him. Just for him. It makes him moan into Lewis' ass, his cock throbbing and achingly hard in his briefs, but he focuses all his attention toward Lewis and Lewis' pleasure. The tight clench of arousal in his abdomen encourages him to lick into Lewis with more want, wilder than he had before.

Bit by bit, he tastes his way into Lewis. He feels how his hole starts to stretch around Max’s tongue, how it grows bigger when he enters, and smaller when he leaves. Lewis' hips chase the feeling of Max’s wet tongue, as his moans and pants fill the room. His hands in Max’s hair are a great indicator of what Lewis likes and when he wants more. His hands also tell Max what doesn’t work, since Lewis' very willing to scratch Max’s scalp when he does something right, or something that he doesn’t like as much as other actions.

Lewis starts leaking steadily, and Max has to fight every urge to lick it off of his dick. God, he feels hungry for Lewis' come, and he’s literally eating his ass out.

Max’s mouth wanders around Lewis' ass. He bites down on the inside of Lewis' thigh, leaving a red mark on the skin. One of Lewis' hands falls from Max’s hair and moves up to clutch at the headboard. When Max looks over Lewis' hips at him, he sees how Lewis' biceps bulge everytime Max bites into his skin or fucks into his hole a certain kind of way. Or, sometimes, how he so much as breathes onto Lewis' dick and Lewis just throws his head back in ecstasy.

Max moves away from Lewis' ass and watches Lewis blink a few times before he registers what’s happening. Lewis’ unbraided hair is a mess on his head – it’s sticking out on all sides, curls covering the pillow, and it looks like he just rolled out of bed after sleeping over, missing his alarm.

Bratty as Max is, he gets one hand under his chin and looks at Lewis. He muses, “How long do you think I can edge you?”

Lewis throws his head back again, and Max places a kiss on the inside of his knee.

“Not-not much longer, jeeeesus.”

Max smirks darkly and bites into Lewis' hipbone, making Lewis very aware of how his abandoned cock lays flat against his belly. There’s a small puddle of precome on his skin. Max licks it clean, then mutters, “So like, an hour?”

“An hour?!” Lewis all but yells, “Are you insane?”

Max chuckles, feeling powerful, “Two hours.”

Lewis gets himself up on his elbows, face flushed, “How long have you been going for now? I lost track of time. What year is it?”

“It’s still 2021, and I’ve been going for—” Max checks the clock on his nightstand. He hadn’t actually checked when he started, but it must have been around seven when Lewis came into his house, “—’bout fifteen minutes.”

Lewis rolls his eyes and mutters, “And you wanna go for a whole-ass hour… Is that how you treat your knight?”

Max blushes and smiles, crinkling his eyes, mischief sparking within, “Is that not how you want to be treated, sir Lewis?”

A sigh, then: “Edge me for half an hour, bet I won’t make it.”

“Oh my, Lewis Hamilton backing down from a challenge?” Max pretends to be shocked. He clutches his non-existent pearls, then gets his hand back to Lewis' thigh, tracing the skin with soft, curious, fingers. He talks to Lewis' thigh, “I bet you will make it. An hour, and then I'll buy you dinner.”

Wait—

That sounds awfully a lot like a date. Wait, hold up, wait, he and Lewis aren’t even at that phase. They have never had a date. They have never had dinner together. They just have sex and race on track and talk about each other to reporters even when no one mentions their name. They bicker and banter in press conferences. They make references no one understands. They joke with each other, they laugh with each other. They pretend they’re just colleagues from a rival team, and hope no one catches them looking at the other longer than necessary.

They don’t date.

But maybe Lewis doesn’t see this as a date. After all, Max didn’t say he’d buy them dinner at a fancy restaurant. For all Lewis knows, he’s gonna get a pizza delivery and they’ll just hope the food’s edible by the time it arrives at his apartment. So, maybe he just sees it as a mere reward with no meaning, no undertones.

Maybe he doesn’t see how Max’s crushing and slowly falling for him.

Even if Max won’t dare admit it to himself.

Lewis smiles brightly, a soft blush on his cheeks. “Fine,” He states, taking a deep breath, “An hour. Dinner.”

Oh, but what if Lewis wants Max to take him out?

Now that’s terrifying.

The mere idea of entertaining the possibility that Lewis' into Max the way Max’s into Lewis is mortifying. He’d never dare think that that’s on the table. This is just sex. That’s all it’ll ever be. Sex, and a pining Max. Sex, and sometimes a hopeful Max, if he dares to let his mind wander.

Not trusting his voice, Max just smiles and kisses the inside of Lewis' knee again, and then his thigh. He crawls up Lewis' body, kissing his way to Lewis' collarbone — naturally, he takes a detour at Lewis' nipples and rolls one of the buds in between his teeth. Lewis arches his back, and it’s so fucking annoying how well they slot together.

Max shakes the thought away from his brain.

His lips meet Lewis' jawline, and then hovers above Lewis. Lewis instinctively hooks his legs around Max’s hips.

“Hey,” Max says, smiling.

“Hey, yourself,” Lewis responds, mirroring Max’s smile. He grinds his hips up to Max’s clothed cock. Silently and hopefully asking Max to do something about his aching dick.

Max breathes out, kissing a line from Lewis’ jaw to his ear, nibbling on his earlobe. “Needy boy,” He huffs.

Max moves back to kiss Lewis' cheek and then his lips. Lewis opens up for him easily, and Max’s tongue finds its way into Lewis' mouth. He’s never kissed someone longer than necessary — usually making out was a mere means to an end, resulting either in sex or a goodbye that’ll be sour on his lips. But with Lewis, it’s like they reinvented making out together. Right here, right now, Max would be content with just kissing Lewis for the next hour, and then going to sleep together.

Well, not— not together in his bed, it’s not like they’re a couple.

But, but, but, just kissing him. For science.

He can see himself never getting tired of the way their faces slot together, how Lewis cocks his head to the side just slightly, and how Max’s fingers trace soft circles on his hip bone. How Lewis' tongue finds its way into Max’s mouth, and how they dance together like they’ve been studying each other for years. Like they’ve known each other this intimately for years, knows what the other likes, what the other wants.

Lewis rolls his hips against Max’s again, and Max’s brought back from the floaty feeling of kissing to planet Earth. He reactivates some parts of himself, and is reminded of his goal — Lewis' pleasure.

Well, if there’s one thing Lewis loves, it’s getting his tits played with.

Max’s hands land on Lewis' ribs, and his thumbs play with his nipples. He marks Lewis' chest up some more, never satisfied with how many stains he sucks into Lewis' skin. There’s always room for more, beside the lines of his tattoos — hell, Max’ll spell his entire name out in hickey’s if needed.

“Your nipples are so sensitive, it’s like you’ve never been touched there before.” Max sucks another nipple into his mouth. He’s never been that keen on nipples, his own aren’t this sensitive, and nowhere near as responsive as it makes Lewis.

Lewis moans, “God- I’ve, I’ve never- You pay such good attention to me, Max. I’ve never felt so- so- so wanted.” His fingers tangle into Max’s hair again, “No one’s ever paid this much attention to me this way. I’ve never felt– never felt like this before.”

Max freezes for a second. He places another kiss on Lewis' chest as his mind starts to spiral yet again — is he paying too much attention to Lewis? Is it too clear he would do anything for this man? Is it too obvious how he wants to be the one for Lewis, leaving constant reminders that no one can make him feel the way Max does? He wonders if he’s too possessive, if he’s been too focused on getting Lewis anything he wants and getting anything Max wants in return, that he’s fallen into old habits. Into the habits of a boyfriend, not just the one of a lover.

He looks at Lewis again. Lewis, who is smiling brightly at him, who has his lips slightly parted as he pants, whose voice is sounding rough from screaming. Max places a kiss on Lewis' sternum, then sucks a mark onto the rough and thin skin.

Lewis rolls his hips again, and Max thinks, so what if I'm being boyfriend-y, Lewis doesn’t seem to mind, and figures he owes Lewis a blowjob for the one that Lewis had given him.

His kisses trail lower and lower, until he reaches Lewis' hip bone again. He looks up at Lewis with dark eyes, and waits for Lewis to look back at him. Lewis smiles when he meets Max’s eyes, and nods softly, as if he read Max’s mind.

Max licks Lewis' length, and Lewis' hips buck up. “S-sorry, ” he apologizes.

Max smiles, “You’ve got at least forty minutes to go.” He winks as he licks Lewis' slit, tasting the bitterness of his precome. He cleans the tip of Lewis' dick — there’s precome everywhere since Lewis has been leaking steadily all this time. It’s so messy, and Max’s intoxicated by it. He's never had a partner who was so fucking wet for him, and he cannot believe what he's been missing out on.

“I will not hold on for fucking—” Lewis gasps, “For fucking forty minutes.”

“Guess I’ll have to go slow.” Max trails his tongue all around Lewis’ thick dick, tracing every part of it. His cockhead is flushed an angry red shade, and Max sucks it in his mouth. Lewis hisses, one hand shooting to Max’s hair to tug, for safety, to have something to hold on to. Max covers Lewis' dick with his mouth, sucking lower and lower to envelop him in warmth. He is true to his promise, taking his sweet time, getting his throat adjusted to Lewis’ thickness. God, he’s so big inside Max’s mouth, filling him up completely. It’s a sensation Max never wants to get used to..

When he meets Lewis' groin with his nose, he waits. His eyes flick up to Lewis' face, seeing how he pants, how he tries to hold himself together. Lewis’ other hand is clutching the headboard, and since there isn’t much to hold on to, Max sees how his nails scrape against the fabric. He warms Lewis' cock with a slack jaw and waits. Waits until Lewis says something, waits until Lewis' collected his thoughts enough to comment on this whole situation.

Max thinks there's worse ways to celebrate leading the world championship than warming your rival’s cock.

Lewis blinks a few times. His chest isn’t heaving as much anymore. Max can tell by the throbbing in Lewis’ dick that he’s so close to coming, truly on the edge of his orgasm. And yet he tries to hold on.

Lewis mutters, “Please— do something.”

Max winks, moving up Lewis' dick. He flicks his tongue out to tease the sensitive head of Lewis' cock, until Lewis' gasping and pleading, hands clenched into the bedsheets. His knuckles are white, and he’s begging breathlessly, “Plea—please, Max– Max—”.

Satisfied with Lewis' reaction, Max licks and sucks his way down Lewis' cock, hollowing his cheeks. The noises are wet and loud in the room as Max swallows him. He goes slow, slower than he's had with any partner before. Savouring all of Lewis' taste, learning the shape of Lewis’ fat cock with his tongue. He feels high on information, unravelling new details with every swipe of his tongue. Lewis lets out a soft please, please Max as he pets Max’s hair.

Max goes absolutely wild on how Lewis' gotten from almost apologetic — blaming his interest in and attraction to Max on post-race adrenaline — to freely begging for more. He's gotten so much better at asking for what he wants, at acknowledging what he wants. Max’s not ashamed to say he’s proud, if he were to ever need to speak this out loud. He might praise Lewis later, if his own mouth isn’t stuffed with Lewis’ dick again.

God, he’s thinking so much about things today.

He gives up on searching for conclusions about what this all means. Instead, he turns his attention to Lewis' ass. He notes how he hasn’t yet touched much of that gorgeous, gorgeous ass that’s been presented to him. He should be ashamed of himself. His fingers trail over the curve of Lewis' ass, soft lines over his thighs.

Lewis' breathing picks up.

“Mm-Max I swear— don’t—”

Max pulls off of Lewis' dick, only to suck on his own pointer finger instead. He mutters, “Just half an hour to go, baby. You got this.” He then runs his finger around Lewis' rim and goes back to taking Lewis' delicious cock into his mouth. Slowly, in agonizingly sync with his mouth, he inserts his finger, sinking into Lewis' hot, tight ass. Lewis moans and screams like this is the very first time in his life he’s gotten something inside of himself. Max takes his time to feel around, to feel how Lewis' muscles contract around his finger, sucking him in, and how his belly is shaking with his breath.

“Max— I’m so close—”

Max pulls his mouth off of Lewis abruptly. He looks at the man below him sternly and says, “I’m gonna open you up so prettily, and you’re gonna take it all.” He circles his finger around again, “Then I’m gonna fuck your ass just like this, and you’re gonna hold off from coming until I’ve come.”

He kisses the inside of Lewis' thigh, “And maybe after that, I’ll let you come.”

“Maybe?” Lewis snaps.

Max smiles smugly, “Maybe I’ll fuck you with a vibrator and suck on your tits before you can come. Maybe I won’t let you come at all… So many options.”

“Arse- fucking arsehole,” But there’s no bite to it, just desperation.

Max gets his second finger inside Lewis, watching as Lewis' hole spasms around his fingers, “Your arsehole.”

“My arsehole, but still- still a fucking arsehole.” And this time, even Max cannot deny how Lewis' cheeks are suddenly much darker red than before. “I’m gonna explode.”

“I hope you will, and I’ll lick you clean.”

Lewis draws in a shaky breath, “Is— is this how you secure the championship?”

“No,” Max chuckles, “That you seem to be doing for me already.”

“Fuuuuuck,” Lewis throws his head back. Maybe Max shouldn't have reminded him of the race and how Lewis and his team failed. Max hums. He can bring Lewis back to the present, to the haze he’d fallen into easily.

Max says, “Think you can take a third?” While moving down and licking Lewis' slit clean again. Lewis arches his back, working his ass onto Max’s fingers — the effect of Max’s words instantaneous. His hand is long gone from Max’s hair, now clutching the sheets below him like his life depends on it.

“Yeah,” He breathes after a few seconds, “But I don’t think I can last much longer.”

“Is okay, I won’t either.” Max admits, then: “Kinda want to open you up on a dildo, since you look so good all stretched for me.”

“Hhhhappy— happy to show you any other time than today. Please, please let me come.”

Max smirks. He makes quick work of opening Lewis up with a third finger, careful not to touch Lewis' dick in the meantime.

Lewis seems in such a haze, it’s almost like Max pushed him into subspace. At the realisation, Max feels overly protective. Lewis is so relaxed under his touch, trusting him with whatever he’s planning. His breathing is even, though it sometimes hitches. He’s not beyond begging, and drowns visibly in Max’s touches. Max is so glad he doesn’t have to leave Lewis' home after this. He doesn't think he can take it, leaving him in this other dimensional state of being without Max there to take care of him. Without Max to get him into a bath and relax as he slowly comes back to himself. He really just wants to bundle Lewis up in a blanket and wrap his arms around him so they can fall asleep together.

Which reminds Max that he owes Lewis dinner.

Followed by the realization that Lewis' holding on so much because he wants Max to buy him dinner.

Really, asking Lewis out would have been so much easier for the both of them.

Max moves himself out of his briefs and throws them somewhere into the void of his bedroom. He grabs some lube but doesn't take the time to warm it up before he's getting it on his dick. He aligns himself with Lewis' hole and slides home relatively easily.

“Fuuuck,” Max groans, feeling Lewis' hole clenching around his dick. Lewis' so warm — he’s warm everywhere, his skin hot, his mouth warm… there’s a reason Max feels like Lewis is the sunshine in his life, the rays warming up his face through his bedroom blinds. Everything about Lewis is warm, his body a natural source of heat, and so is his attitude. He’s welcoming, warming, and supportive to new drivers.

He feels Lewis relax around him. Max’s hands hold a murderous grip on Lewis' hips, stopping himself from taking what he wants and just pounding into Lewis. Stopping himself from splitting Lewis in half for real.

Lewis' hands shoot to Max’s upper arms, clinging to him, nails pressing crescent moons into Max’s skin. There's probably a metaphor here of how Max’s skin looks like space, covered in birthmark-shaped stars and nailmark-shaped moons, like he’s the night’s sky to Lewis' sunshine.

Max can’t find the word for it, too caught up in how Lewis feels, how he can finally groan and pay attention to his own orgasm. Lewis' eyes are wide and so fucking gorgeous. Max forces his own eyes to stay open, even when he feels Lewis' legs hook around his hips while he screams Max’s name to fill the silence of his bedroom. He needs to look at Lewis' eyes, how Lewis looks at him. How Lewis wants him.

Max isn’t gonna last long.

Max's thrusts have been erratic from the moment he slid into Lewis. He moves shakily, partially to stop himself from fucking Lewis too roughly, partially to stop himself from coming embarrassingly quick. Max gets both hands beside Lewis' face, hovering over him entirely. He sees every last twitch of Lewis' face, and falls head over heels for that glaze over Lewis' eyes — a layer of trust, lust and desire. Lewis smiles shyly before leaning up to capture Max’s lips in a kiss.

Max can barely kiss back; one moment, he’s panting, the next he’s coming undone inside Lewis.

He feels like he’s bursting at the seams, his last bit of self control fully surrendered as his cock throbs inside Lewis, as he comes and comes into Lewis, creaming his insides — vision gone white. He doesn’t register how Lewis' hands clutch his arms tighter, how he’s begging to come.

When Max blinks again, he sees that Lewis' still waiting for his permission. He kisses Lewis' lips, then says, “You're too good for me - come, darling. Show me.”

He wraps a hand around Lewis, and just that seems to do it. He comes, and comes, so hard that it hits his chin.

“Max!”

He clenches so tightly around Max’s dick that Max grunts from oversensitivity, and feels how it draws out another spurt of come from him. He lets his head fall forward as he groans. He feels like Lewis' milking every last bit out of him.

It takes him quite some time to come back to awareness, and Max’s been slowly stroking him through it. Lewis shakes from overstimulation and peels Max’s hand away from his dick. His entire chest is covered in come, his hair is sticking up on all sides, and his neck is covered in hickeys and bite marks.

And his eyes…

His eyes are so relaxed and he seems at ease, shoulders the opposite of tense. He is panting, smiling his way through it.

Max smiles back, fulfilling his promise by starting to lick Lewis clean. His chest, his nipples, his neck. He’s careful not to tip Lewis off the wrong way, just licking him clean without it going anywhere.

“Think I can eat you out or do you want me to plug you up?”

Lewis hums an incoherent response.

“Darling?” Max says again, light worry in his voice. He repeats, “Can I eat my come out of you or do you-”

“Just- just plug me up and- and- and-” Lewis' still panting.

That haze over his eyes hasn't faded, and Max thinks that eating him out would go too far. He leans over to his nightstand, grabbing the plug he bought specifically for Lewis — a black silicon with amethyst gemstone. Purple is Lewis' favorite color after all. He gets some lube around it, then slides himself out of Lewis. “Careful now,” he warns, “I’m gonna slide this in real slowly.”

Lewis nods, and Max watches how he sucks the plug into him, losing very little come.

“I’m so proud of you,” Max says, earnest. He kisses Lewis' jaw, “I’m gonna draw you a bath, m’kay? Get you all cleaned. Just wait here.”

Lewis' hand on Max’s arm doesn’t let go as Max tries to move. He turns to Lewis, an eyebrow raised.

Lewis doesn't say anything, but he looks like he’s contemplating something life-changing.

Max kisses his forehead, and that seems to be okay enough for Lewis to let go. Max adds, “Be back in three minutes,” just to be sure.

—

After drawing a bath and ordering some Thai for the two of them, Max finds Lewis asleep in his bed. Lewis has his hands curled around a pillow and he lays so prettily on Max’s bed. Max can wake up to this any day.

Max kisses Lewis' shoulder, “Come with me babe, I gotta get you cleaned.”

“Mssge,” Lewis mutters, then repeats but louder, “Massage.”

Max smiles, turning Lewis so that he can pick him up bridal style, “I’ll massage you, baby. Anything for you.”

“Anything?” Lewis' smirk is smug, but his eyes look skeptical. He’s still visibly tired, and Max is so ready to actually do anything for this man.

Instead, he huffs a laugh, “A lot.”

“Fair ‘nuff.”

Max walks Lewis to the bath. He feels heavy in his arms, like he’s completely surrendered to whatever Max’ll do to him. Like he trusts Max enough to let go of whatever wall he might have up, because he knows he’s literally and figuratively in good hands.

He gets Lewis on his feet before the bath and Lewis crawls in. He hisses at the initial heat of the water, and then slowly lets himself get used to the temperature. When he’s seated, Max finds his way behind him. His legs settle on either side of Lewis' hips, Lewis' hands find his calves and rest there.

It dawns on him that he’s never seen Lewis' back, naked, like this. Every time they’ve been together, they did everything in their power to look at each other's face, to kiss each other, to drown in each other’s eyes. Awfully intimate. The idea that Max had about friends with benefits is that it’s always impersonal, just sex as a benefit, but never intimate like lovers are. Sometimes, he once read, friends with benefits don’t even kiss each other, because that is too close.

And intimacy can result in catching feelings.

Max thinks back to the first time they were together, and remembers how Lewis kissed him like it was his only chance.

Max knew that he was the one with a long-term crush on Lewis, and it never dawned on him that Lewis might also have had a little crush on Max. Max shakes the thought away. Why would Lewis have a crush on him - what’s there to crush on?

He gets his hands on Lewis' shoulders and pushes his fingers on the muscles around his shoulder blades. Lewis lets his head fall forward as he looks at the soapy water, and Max massages the knot in his neck. Lewis is letting out soft hums of appreciation while the hand on Max’s calf tracing circles.

Max knows they should talk. They have a world of items to talk about – the relationship they’ve formed, the rivalry on track, boundaries, rules – and yet Max keeps pushing it away. Lewis' tired now, he’s not gonna burden him with it. Lewis' been so good for Max the entire night, listening to his orders, keeping himself on edge, falling into subspace…

Instead of breaking the fragile silence, Max kisses Lewis' shoulder, and lets his hands travel to massage his lower back.

–

Lewis dries himself off with the occasional grunt of exhaustion. He mutters how his entire body aches, like he’s worked out for the first time in his life and pushed his limits. Max can only smirk, kiss his cheekbone, and whisper, “And I’d happily do this all over to you again.” Lewis shivers and Max sees it as a win.

Max walks to his bedroom and feels Lewis' tired eyes following him. He comes back to the bathroom wearing a pair of sweatpants and hands Lewis his own.

Lewis smiles, “Where do you keep your shirts?”

Max doesn't think when he says, “Middle drawer, the cabinet on your left.” He watches Lewis wobble to the cabinet and open the middle drawer, inspecting the shirts that lay there before fishing out a blue and grey baseball shirt with faded logo. Lewis throws it over his head, and moves his arms around to stretch the fabric. The cotton is tight over his chest — Lewis has a more defined chest than Max could ever wish for — but falls slightly loose over his hips. He hums approvingly, then walks out of the bedroom.

Max catches a brief glimpse of Lewis' smug smile and thinks to himself that Lewis looks so insanely good in his clothes. He might not have such an outspoken fashion sense, so it’s more about the idea that Lewis is wearing something that is his. Something not as colorful or modern, and yet Lewis wants it. He bites his lip before turning around, thinking that he’d want to see Lewis in his clothes more. In public, maybe. A shirt that no one knows is his, and will make Max shiver as he hears Lewis answer whatever question is thrown at him. He’ll know Max is watching him while he wears Max’s shirt. And maybe one day he’ll know what it does to Max, how incredibly possessive it makes him.

Lewis is filling a glass with water when Max catches him in the kitchen. Max stands behind Lewis and kisses his neck, hands on Lewis' hips. He mutters, “You look good in that shirt.”

“Figured you owed me some.”

“Plural?”

Lewis chuckles, “Yeah, plural.”

Max doesn’t have time to think what the fuck that means because the doorbell rings. He checks his watch, and knows it’s the Thai place he ordered from. He moves back from Lewis — after kissing his jaw and patting him softly on his ass — and walks to the door.

Max absolutely does not have the urge to grab Lewis, show him to the delivery guy and tell the stranger how Lewis' all his, and then obscenely make out with him. He curses his thudding heart.

This is getting out of hand.

He places the bags of takeout on his coffee table, after mindlessly calling for Lewis to grab some utensils, like that isn’t the most domestic thing ever. Max separates the containers from each other, double checking that Lewis gets the vegan one, and not the one with beef in it. Lewis walks back in with utensils as told, and sits down in front of Max on the ground. He stretches his legs, and Max feels his cheeks heat up when Lewis' foot touches the outside of his thigh. They could've gone perfectly well without touching, but no, Lewis' skin found a way to Max’s.

Max busies himself with chopsticks before he does something stupid like hold Lewis' calf.

He ends up holding Lewis' calf anyways.

Originally, Max had planned on playing a movie while they ate. He’s never been alone with Lewis like this, and he wanted something to keep them from talking about things and distract them (mostly himself) with something he’s good at talking about. Films are his forte, he can talk about them for hours.

Turns out, so can Lewis.

Turns out, they've a lot in common.

Max can't help but think that if he ever had the luxury to run into Lewis in another life, he would have crushed on him so hard.

Who’s he kidding, he is crushing on Lewis so hard.

Maybe even more than before, but if Max doesn’t make himself think those things, he also won’t feel those things.

“You’ve a nice place, by the way,” Lewis says. His plate’s empty and he’s leaning on his hands, arms outstretched behind him. His foot has moved from beside Max’s thigh to his lap, and Max finds himself massaging it to keep his hands busy.

“Thank you! I like coming back here, it’s calming.”

“Yeah, I get that with such a view.”

We should talk, we should talk, we should talk.

Max smiles as he looks behind Lewis, to his bedroom and the wonderful, massive window he has there. He loves sitting on the ground in that room, warm cup of coffee in hand as he takes in the sunrise, sunset, or night’s sky and counts all the stars. Lewis' foot moves and he nudges Max’s belly. Max looks at Lewis and is met with his determined smile, a dark cast to his eyes. He says, “Sit still,” and starts crawling over to Max.

We should talk, we should talk, we should talk.

Lewis moves into Max’s lap, legs on either side of his hips, and he gets Max’s face in his hands. He looks at Max for a second before smiling and kissing him. He takes his time, first slowly getting the feel of Max’s lips on his own, then gasping for breath and diving back in, tongue licking Max's bottom lip.

All words die in Max’s throat.

He can think of nothing but the weight of Lewis in his lap, the spontaneity of him moving over to kiss Max just because he can, the feeling of his unhurried tongue in Max’s mouth. Max breathes out through his nose, lets his hands travel to Lewis' waist, then his back, to hold him close. Lewis' pelvis is flush against Max’s. Max feels Lewis all over his body. He feels how Lewis' fingers hold him in place, how the tips of his fingers are playing with Max’s hair, how his palm holds Max’s jaw, how Max couldn’t move should he want to (Spoiler alert: he doesn’t want to).

Everything is perfect like this. So fucking perfect.

And to think Max ridiculed Lewis for wanting to hold Max while he rode him. God, he never wants to be held by anyone other than sir Lewis Carl Davidson Hamilton.

Lewis slots over him so fucking perfectly.

Lewis' hands on Max’s head is so fucking perfect.

Lewis' tongue in Max’s mouth is so fucking perfect.

Lewis is so fucking perfect.

Max groans low into Lewis' mouth, his hands slipping under the fabric of Lewis' shirt. The force in Lewis' grip fades as he starts to melt into Max easier. His shoulders fall lower, and his hands travel to Max’s neck, fingers tapping away at the skin.

Lewis moves back to breathe a second, “I’m tired,” he states, then smiles. “Come sleep?” He cocks his head to the side, and he looks so fucking soft. Max takes a moment to realise that very few people have seen Lewis like this — hair messy and slightly wet from their bath, in a borrowed (stolen) t-shirt, many hickeys littering his neck, lips swollen from kissing — and it makes Max feel weird in his stomach. There’s a fluttering in his chest, a clenching feeling around his heart. He feels a foreign lump start to form in his throat — he tries to keep his emotions down — he’s so not gonna cry over this. He’s not! He’s not gonna get emotional over the fact that his professional rival on whom he happens to have a crush and with whom he happens to have a sexual relationship has asked to sleep with him. Really sleep. Unguarded and helpless, subconscious and weak, asleep together in a bed that is Max’s.

Max looks up at Lewis and smiles, blinking twice and hoping that Lewis missed the way his eyes look glassy, “Yeah, go ahead, I'll clean this up. Be right with you.”

Almost ecstatic, Lewis cups Max’s cheeks again and kisses him. He places one more kiss on Max’s nose before he stands up and hobbles to the bedroom, using every surface he can find to lean on. Max doesn’t know what kind of muscle pain Lewis must be feeling, and he can’t help but imagine it will be way worse tomorrow. Not one bit of him feels sorry, and he’d happily do it all over again.

And again.

And again.

With the takeout boxes safely tucked away in a trashcan, Max makes his way back to his bedroom. He finds Lewis lying on his left side, sheets up over his shoulder and breathing steadily. For a second, Max stops to watch, just to look at Lewis lying in his bed, safe, secure. There’s so much unspoken trust in this very moment — as well as many others earlier in the day — and Max can’t stop that clenching feeling near his heart. His mind is providing him the wish of seeing Lewis like this more often, time after time. He can wake up like this every day of the week, for the rest of his life.

Just to see Lewis safe, asleep and warm in Max’s bed eases a consistent possessive worry from his shoulders. Ever since they’ve gotten into this new layer of their relationship, Max’s been so keen on ensuring that Lewis' taken care of, that he’s happy.

Naturally, Max would prefer to hold a golden trophy, but the idea of not having Lewis with his silver next to Max feels weird. They should be together, in balance. They slot together so perfectly, they feel what the other wants and needs, they know how to help one another out. They’re balanced in their banter, joking left and right and picking up on each other’s bits.

And today, Max learned they have an insane amount of stuff in common too — they love animals and have owned several pets throughout their lives, they share the wildest karting stories, have similar opinions on Monaco – and so much more. Even all the things they love to argue about are more fun than hurtful. Like, Max knew Lewis was religious, but ghosts? Really?

It amuses him to bits to rattle Lewis up and argue with him about stuff like this.

He daydreams of days where they battle over the quality of the Cars films while walking hand in hand through the city, just caught up in their own little bubble and completely forgetting about the rest of the world.

Fuck, Max thinks, I want to date him.

His mind goes wild with all sorts of things he wants to do with Lewis, each softer than the next. He wants to take Lewis out for dinner and treat him to his favorite foods. He wants to go to the cinema and share a popcorn bowl, letting their fingers touch when they grab a handful. He wants to hold Lewis' hand while walking through the streets. He wants to kiss Lewis when he feels like it.

He wants to tell the whole world who he’s dating. That Lewis Hamilton is his. And that he’s all Lewis'.

Max crawls onto the bed and finds his place under the covers. Tentatively, he lies on his back, suddenly afraid that cuddling Lewis would be too intimate for their current… arrangement.

Whatever it may entail.

Lewis shifts beside Max. Max watches him roll to his other side, curl up against Max and place a hand on his chest. He looks up at Max with sleepy eyes, then nuzzles his head on Max’s chest and closes his eyes again. Max gets an arm around Lewis' shoulders and places a kiss on his head. He feels how Lewis starts to be a heavier and heavier weight atop him. His breathing slows, his lips parted.

Max lets one of his hands dart over Lewis' arm – the one he’s got slung over Max’s chest – before his own heavy eyes get the better of him.

––

Max wakes up to the sound of a phone blaring a ringtone. The first thing he notices is that it’s not his phone, followed by him realising that he’s close to a warm body, his arm is wrapped around someone’s waist, and his lips pressed to a neck.

Lewis.

His sleepy mind cuddles Lewis closer, lips now pressing a kiss to that neck before him like it’s been begging him to do that this entire time. His body is nicely warm against Max’s, and Max feels his tummy do a weird little swirl. His chest is tight with… with… with a feeling he’s used to getting from partners, from people that he loves.

Lewis groans, turning around to hug Max closer. He rolls over, chuckling into Max’s skin as he carelessly flops himself onto Max. One leg wedges between Max’s, his arms crossing on Max’s chest as he looks at Max with small, but bright dark eyes. “Hi,” he smiles.

Max blinks himself awake, a hand finding its way into Lewis' dark curls. He pets Lewis' hair and then moves to cup his cheek, “Hi,” he says back. He’s aware he’s looking at Lewis with all the love in his eyes he can manage, too tired to hide how he feels this early on a Monday morning. “Did you sleep well?” he asks, because Sophie Kumpen raised a gentleman.

Lewis’ smile is brighter than the morning sun that colours Max’s room in a yellow hue. His unbraided hair is a mess and if Max were to look up the definition of ‘soft’, he’d find an image of this exact version of Lewis. Lewis nods, his voice slightly hoarse from yesterday, “My body hurts but that’s nothing new. I’m more rested than I’ve been the past few weeks, so, yeah, I slept very well. How about you?”

Max does a check of his body and energy levels, and he smiles, “Could go for a coffee, but yeah, I slept well too.” He’s too afraid to admit that this might’ve been the best sleep he’s gotten in probably his entire life. He feels a blush creeping onto his cheeks at the realisation.

Lewis nods and confesses, “I don’t drink coffee.”

“Get off of me, and I’ll make you tea if you want,” Max smiles, nudging at Lewis' sides.

“Ah—” Lewis moans, letting his head fall onto Max’s chest.

Max gets his hand away abruptly, “Sorry, you must be sore.”

A nod, then, “Now you definitely owe me tea.” Lewis rolls off of Max, onto his own chest.

Max smiles, “When’s your plane leaving?”

Lewis checks his phone, finally turning off the horrible blaring of the alarm, and mutters, “Two hours, gotta get back into my hotel in thirty, then.”

“Get ready, I’ll make some breakfast.”

“Thank you, I'm starving.”

Max gets out from under the covers, places a soft kiss on the back of Lewis' head, and leaves the bedroom. He busies himself in the kitchen, using this pancake batter he’s got as a leftover from a while ago — a mixture that just happened to be vegan and therefore makes the perfect breakfast for them — and hearing his coffee machine fill his second cup. He lays out the few tea bags he owns on a table, and bakes the pancakes the way he likes them, hoping it’s okay for Lewis. He knows he can just walk into his room and ask, but also he’s a terrible cook and will burn the pancakes that are already in the pan. He’ll risk it.

Lewis emerges a few minutes later, holding the clothing he wore yesterday in his hands, while still wearing Max’s shirt and sweatpants. Max does a double take. Lewis tries to hide his blush under Max’s gaze, doing his best to appear neutral about it. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Lewis smiles, “Smells good here.”

Max collects his thoughts, muttering, “Are you gonna steal all my clothes?”

Lewis gets closer to Max and lays his head on Max’s shoulder, “You owe me one for the sweatshirt. Oh! Pancakes! I haven't had those in a while!”

“I didn’t know how you liked them so I made them the Dutch way—”

“No, no! This looks perfect!”

It’s so fucking dumb, but Max can’t fight the smile on his face. He bites his lip to stop it from spreading to widely, but it’s so fucking cute how Lewis' here with him. He knows their time together is finite, that he will have to leave in a handful of minutes. But he can have this now.

They eat their pancakes together, and Max can’t stop hoping he’ll get to see this at least once more in his life.

He’s so fucking in love.

Fuck.

Lewis' smiling brightly as he eats his pancakes. It turns into a frown when his phone pings. He had left it somewhere in the void of the living room when he entered, entirely forgotten when Max and he got to finally touch each other again. He stands up, rushes to the living room and out of Max’s sight, only to come back with his phone in hand, reading the notification. He leans against the doorpost, and Max takes a short moment to admire how good he looks — one hand in the pocket of Max’s sweatpants, the other holding his phone, his hair messy and in his face, and there’s a small ray of sunshine illuminating his silhouette. Max smiles at him, for no reason other than his pathetic infatuation.

“My ride’s about to be here.”

Oh.

“Leave this here, I'll clean it up. Have you got everything?” Max jumps into business mode, ensuring Lewis gets his ride and to his plane in time. He’ll never forgive himself if Lewis misses his plane.

“Are you sure? It’s no issue—”

“Lewis.”

“Okay,” Lewis nods. He eyes his pile of clothes, “You got a bag for these?”

“You—” Max starts, about to comment on how Lewis' really not gonna get dressed in his own clothes but rather keep Max’s, before realizing just how much it affects him to see Lewis in his clothes, so he stops caring. “Yeah, here.” He hands Lewis a plastic bag, and Lewis takes it, dropping his clothes and his phone in there. Max walks to his front door, opening it up for Lewis to leave.

Lewis winds his arms around Max’s neck and kisses him. And, look, Max’s pretty good with self-control and all but…

Oh, who’s he kidding. He’s so in love it’s getting to his head.

Max kisses back, arms finding their place around Lewis' waist. He slots under Max perfectly again, and Max has to fight the urge to ask Lewis to stay.

Lewis moves back, “So, uh, my ride is… here…”

“Yeah, you gotta go.”

Lewis doesn’t move.

Max doesn’t either.

Lewis says, “Thank you for… all of this. For taking care of me. I feel a lot better than I did yesterday.”

“My pleasure,” Max says, because he has no clue how else to respond to this. How do you ‘you’re welcome’ someone with whom you had sex to help out, and for whom you’re catching mad butterflies everywhere because you can’t keep things to yourself? “You’re always welcome to swing by, you know.” He adds, because that feels like the polite thing to do.

Lewis smiles, “Good. Stay over when we’re in Silverstone?”

“If you still want me then.”

“I’ll prepare the sheets,” and he kisses Max’s cheek. His phone dings again. “I—”

“Yeah, you have to go. Go! Don’t miss your plane!”

“Okay,” Lewis moves back, checks his belongings, and then smiles playfully, standing on his tiptoes to surprise Max with one last kiss, “Catch you in Azerbaijan, love!”

“See ya, babe.”

And Max watches how Lewis turns around the hallway, waving one last time before he fades out of sight.

He shuts the door to his apartment, and it’s never felt as empty as this before.

The ghost of Lewis haunts him everywhere — the coffee table, where they sat and had dinner, the kitchen, with Lewis' used plates and unfinished pancake, the doorpost, under which he just kissed Max.

The bedroom… oh god, the bedroom.

Max isn’t sure he’ll sleep tonight, not without Lewis in his arms.

Max has a terrible idea.

❝ oh call me by your name

Tell me you love me in private ❞

bakou, azerbaijan; june 6, 2021

God, Max loves Lewis so much, it’s pathetic.

“Lewis,” he had muttered, grabbing his rival by his sleeve to pull him close and whisper, “I can’t come by anymore.”

After spending the weekend together, Max spent every free moment he had combing through his contract, seeing if rivals are allowed to be in a relationship, or just friends. His biggest nightmare turned out to be true: he was barely allowed to be in touch with rivals outside of race days, press conferences, and interviews. Moments where there’s press-people from his team recording his every word so they can analyse it later on. Where they can monitor him. A relationship with Lewis was not only impossible (Max doesn’t even know if Lewis would want that) but also illegal and could cost both men their dream jobs. Max had to protect Lewis.

“That’s okay,” Lewis had said, somewhat confused. Max remembered feeling his heart clench, immediately wanting to backtrack and kiss away the frown on his lover’s forehead. “I’ll see you in France, then?”

“No, Lewis,” Max had said, through gritted teeth, “I can’t swing by, ever, anymore. We have to stop this, us, whatever we are doing.”

“But-“

“See you on track, Lewis.” Max had taken a deep breath, “Good luck.” and walked away.

—

What a terrible fucking race.

Everything went by flawlessly, perfectly! Max led most laps, overtook in the first lap and kept leading the race as if people made way for him. His team noted a 1.9 seconds pitstop which helped him get an undercut and overtake Hamilton through the pit. Hamilton’s team had a 4 second pitstop, painfully slow. Max needed the points, needed to take a sprint away from Hamilton in the championship, because when they’re back to normal races, and not street races like Monaco and Bakou were, he knows Mercedes will do everything in their power to overtake him again. He knows Mercedes can overtake him. But not today! Today was a perfect race...

Until—

Until his blowout in the last five laps, victory had been in sight. His tire said ‘sike!’ and Max spun, hitting the wall. His car moved horizontally before coming to a stop. Max knew that was the end for him — no victory in Bakou, despite needing it so desperately.

He steps out of his car to look at the ruined thing, kicking another tire after seeing the damage and grunting helplessly. There must have been a red flag, or something, because he caused a shitton of debris on track. Max doesn’t follow it. He walks off-track, punches a wall or two, before retreating to his driver's home to shower and blow off some steam.

God he wants to visit Lewis.

There’s absolutely nothing in the world he would rather do than walk to Lewis' home, let Lewis fuck him against a wall so hard he loses his mind and forgets everything. It's an itch, deep in his bones, that only Lewis can scratch. The man must’ve done great in this race, probably finished second, if not first, and took the championship out of Max’s hands.

If only he didn’t break off their… arrangement.

There’s no way he can keep it, though! He keeps justifying it to himself that a relationship with Lewis — secret or out in the open — is impossible, and putting them both through that is painful and damaging. Their careers are at stake. Max knows he’s partially willing to just say, “Fuck F1, I want to live with Lewis. I’d rather be jobless than Lewis-less.” But the amount of disappointment he’d receive from every human being around him is insanely innumerable. His own father, with his stranded F1 career, did everything in his power to ensure Max’s career would have a chance. And he’s gotten that chance. To give it away for a lover? Impossible. He’s not living some sort of Romeo and Juliet life.

And, on the flip side, it’s not like his racing has gotten worse due to this. Frankly, he’s driving his best season ever. Lewis, on the other hand, hasn’t had his best season. On some days, when Lewis and Max are battling on track, Lewis will exceed his own records and drive better than he ever has. Other times he’ll make mistakes, like he did in Italy. Lewis' a very good driver, talented as hell, and when pushed to perform he performs better than ever. Max's just been a distraction to him, it seems.

If Max were only in it for the racing, he could have kept this up and seen how Lewis fails race after race, and experience becoming a world champion. But… There’s more.

There's feelings involved — at least from Max’s end.

Breaking it all off now is only better for them – for their professional rivalry, for their own feelings. It’s the right thing to do.

But right’s never felt so wrong before.

Max receives a call from his engineer to head out to the press circle, and he must be ready to give interviews and pretend the only thing on his mind is the race.

As he gives interview after interview, roughly telling everyone the same story, he can’t get the image of Lewis out of his head. Lewis' sad eyes when he told him to break this off, Lewis' skin under Max’s hands, Lewis in Max’s clothes.

He blinks and walks over to Ziggo’s own Jack Plooij, next in line

He feels a hand on his shoulder, and looks around to see none other than Daniel, eyes sympathetic. Max lets out a breath of relief, seeing a familiar and kind face. Max looks up to Daniel ‘Sunshine’ Ricciardo, the clown on the paddock who always wears a bright smile and welcoming arms. They're good friends, Max dares to conclude. Max bumps Daniel’s fist as a way of greeting.

“Sorry for what happened, man.” Daniel says, patting Max on his shoulder again, “But at least it’s not like your teammate drove into your ass.”

Max laughs, thinking back to Bakou a few years ago, when Daniel was still with Red Bull, and Daniel got an unexpected DRS that pushed him forward so he drove into the back of Max’s car, leading them both unable to finish. “Yeah, appreciate it, man.” Max rolls his eyes, jokingly. He can’t come up with a proper retort, but he appreciates Daniel’s sentiment.

“Seems like you don’t even need me to get a DNF, huh?” Daniel smirks, jabbing Max’s shoulder playfully.

Max smiles back. He feels his guard falling down and shoulders relaxing as he talks with Daniel again, like the good old days. He winks, “Hey man, I’m still leading the championship, apparently.”

“Touché, touché.” Daniel nods, and walks away, back to his own duties.

Max still has wrinkles near his eyes when the interviewer asks what Daniel wanted. He shrugs, still wearing his smile, “‘S nothing, just said he’s sorry for what happened.”

The interviewer smiles back, perhaps thinking they know what’s going on, but Max suspects that they can’t be further from the truth. Then, they continue to ask about Max’s opinion on the unreliable Pirelli tires.

The rest of the press moments go by in a blur, and surprisingly, before Max knows it, he’s back in his motor home. His phone lay idly in his hand as he pretends to scroll through his twitter feed. He’s just waiting for his boss to pick him up and lead him to his plane, counting down the moments until he can sleep in his bed again. All by himself.

A knock on the door startles him. He jumps up and walks to open the thing, expecting his boss, an assistant, just someone in a Red Bull outfit.

What he didn’t expect was to be met with lips crashing on his own and the familiar sweat and faded deodorant scent that form a delicious, intoxicating, and addicting cocktail belonging to Lewis Hamilton. His hands are in Max’s hair, tugging him down and keeping him in place. Max grunts at the touch, eyes wide but closing rather quickly. He knows he has no choice. He can’t fight a determined Lewis Hamilton.

Lewis' movements are rough as he pushes Max back, throwing the door closed behind him. The whole vehicle shakes from the impact, but neither man pays it any mind. Lewis frames Max against a counter, grinding against him, lips bruising. His hands are everywhere – from Max’s neck, to his shoulders, waist, back – and he’s pushing himself so tightly against Max, Max wonders if they might meld together. After one vicious grind, Max’s mouth falls open with a moan, only to be swallowed by Lewis' lips, tongue pushing in and licking every inch of Max’s mouth.

Lewis is angry, Max realizes.

Lewis' never been this forceful, this painful, this… lacking of care and purely driven on instinct and desire and adrenaline before.

Max can’t really say he minds.

He moves his head back to breathe, hands still nervously by his side, afraid to touch, afraid to break this haze Lewis' in. He should push Lewis away any second now. Just one more kiss to his neck, one more bruise on his hips, one more-

Lewis' hands on Max’s hips guide him toward Max’s bedroom, door still conveniently open. He pushes Max onto the bed, and immediately crawls on top of him. He rolls his hips down onto Max’s, and Max throws his head back. He’s getting so fucking hard so fucking quickly, he feels dizzy from it. Lewis is crawling lower, snapping open button after button, and ruining Max’s Red Bull shirt. He’ll have to find an excuse for it later.

Excuse. Lie. Secret.

Max snaps out of his own lusty haze, pushing Lewis' head away from where he’s moving to mouth at his dick. He grunts, “Lewis, Lewis, we shouldn’t – I told you-”

“Shut the fuck up, Max.” Lewis' eyes see red beneath the desire, a fierce fire burning in his glaze. His fingers stubbornly fidget with Max’s pants as he yanks them down, “You’re mine, you hear? Mine.” There's such a gravelly tone in Lewis' voice that Max gives up any argument, any fight he had bubbling in the back of his throat.

Max’s body betrays him, his dick twitching with interest in Lewis' hand, his breathing picking up as he fills the room with low pants, his eyes screwed shut. He wants this so badly. “One last time,” he whispers, more to himself than to Lewis. Lewis doesn’t respond.

Lewis undresses Max, throwing his pants into the abyss, his shirt falling open. His movements are frantic, impatient, frustrated. His nails scratch Max’s legs when he yanks his briefs down. Max hisses, asking, “What’s wrong?”

He’s never seen Lewis like this. This… this… this feral. This is different from losing a race. He has heard about Lewis' performance. How he, in the last two laps after the restart, did such a good job overtaking people, and then missed a turn, going straight ahead instead. He had forgotten to press a magic button or something, and lost every chance at getting points in this race because of it. Lewis' energy is something he’s never seen before, not even before they started their arrangement. Is this what he’s like when heartbroken? Did he even get his heart broken? That would mean he had feelings for Max in the first place… Max doesn’t dare let his mind go there.

Lewis looks at him, eyes filled with the same fire as before. He doesn’t say anything.

Max takes a deep breath, eyes closed. When he opens them again, Lewis' fully undressed, his strong hands spreading Max’s legs. His knees take their place in between them, Lewis' tanned skin against Max’s pale thighs. Lewis briefly moves his hand away to grab a bottle of lube he brought with him. Max’s brain can’t even make the connection that Lewis prepared this, that he wants something and is just taking it.

Lewis' finger circles Max’s rim, and Max’s momentarily very glad he prepared himself before the race. So glad he took a long shower, cleaning himself thoroughly. He was originally planning on just fucking himself on an unsatisfying dildo in place of Lewis, after having ripped off the bandaid of their premature breakup. He didn’t expect to be holding his breath for Lewis to sink a finger in, prepping him to take Lewis' dick.

He relaxes as Lewis moves his finger in and out, seemingly paying him almost no mind. He goes to work very methodically, as if he’s never done this before and is following the steps of extensive research. He fingers Max open, first one, then two fingers. He grazes Max’s prostate, and Max arches his back, then lets out a deep and low sigh.

It feels like he’s breathing for the first time in a while. For the first time since Lewis left his apartment and he was left alone with nothing but impossibilities and desires. Feelings paradoxing everything he can do. Limitations weighing heavy on his chest. Crushing him. He has no choice but to push Lewis away, even if Lewis has become his oxygen. Even if Max feels like he can really breathe only now, with Lewis' fingers curling inside him, his other hand gripping tightly on his thigh.

Lewis scissors his fingers only twice, then shrugs, more to himself than to Max. He slips his fingers out, positions himself in between Max’s legs, and holds his dick in his hand. He glances up at Max, his gaze devoid of the fire it held mere seconds ago. He looks vulnerable, hurt. Max’s entire chest clenches. Max wants to reach out, to hold his face close, kiss his nose, and tell him that everything’s gonna be okay. He’ll lie to the world, he’ll lie to himself, so long they can just be together and Lewis will never ever have to look like this again. He wants to say he’s sorry for what he did, wants to apologise and keep Lewis close, never letting him go again. He wants to wake up next to Lewis again, hair messy and throat ruined with hickies, Max’s sweatpants low on his hips. He wants to buy them take out so they can chill on the floor and throw veggies at each other, groaning when they have to clean it all up.

He wants to hold Lewis' hands under the table during press conferences, he wants to sneak a kiss before the race starts, he wants to wink at Lewis and make him blush, as if they’re speaking a language only they know.

Unrealistic, sure. But Max feels the overwhelming need to try.

Just so that Lewis doesn’t ever have to look at Max with this frown, this hurt expression, ever again.

Lewis blinks, the moment fades, the vulnerability gone, the fire relit.

Lewis wastes no time sinking into Max. Max arches his back, groaning in ecstasy. Lewis' cock opens Max, and all his muscles seem to contract and relax, as if his entire body is relearning the feeling. Lewis is relentless, making Max take all of him. Max feels so fucking filled, and it’s the most delicious feeling ever. It’s like finally having eaten and never ever wanting to be hungry again. He wants to live with Lewis' dick inside him, spreading him open so widely. There’s something unspeakably hot about Lewis taking what he wants, and no matter what Max says, he’ll just keep on taking what he wants, using Max like his own toy. Max moans at the ceiling, louder than he usually is. He feels like he’s completely out of control – of the situation, of his body – and it’s almost relieving.

Lewis leans over, pressing his body close to Max’s. The angle stops him from fucking Max quickly, but he’s just as rough when he thrusts slower. Max feels the power of his thrusts through his entire body like soundwaves. Like a drop falling in the ocean and rippling across the surface of the sea. The impact of each thrust reaches all the way from Max’s core to Max’s toes, to the tips of his ears. He feels Lewis everywhere.

Lewis bites down on Max’s jawline, grunting, “He can’t make you feel as good as I can, can he?” Max frowns, but the words are a blur to him when Lewis bites Max’s neck, creating a very insistent and lasting bruise. “Nobody can. Isn’t that right, baby? You’re all mine.”

Lewis' hands trail up Max’s sides, awfully gentle in contrast to his rough thrusts. Max feels high on the contrast, almost as if he’s being touched by two different people at once. Lewis sucks new bruises on Max’s collarbones, his neck, his chest. The way Lewis claims Max is almost obsessive. Max can’t help but seek Lewis' lips every time he finishes a mark. Fuck, demanding-Lewis is hot.

The twitching of Lewis' fingernails against Max’s sides – a place where he’s ticklish – have him craning his neck to meet Lewis' again, eyes wide. For a second, Lewis seems to have an almost playful smile on his face, ready to get into a tickling battle with him. Then he blinks, and it’s gone again, mouth a thin line, lips only parting to breathe. He inches his fingers higher and higher, to grab both of Max’s wrists and plant them above Max’s head, pinning him in place.

Max inhales a shaky, but deep breath, and lets it out in pants. He feels himself sinking deeper into the bed, letting himself go entirely and surrendering to Lewis. He vaguely registers how he’s inching into subspace himself. Even though everything about today is unexpected, even though he had called their arrangement off, even though he shouldn’t be here in the first place, deep down in his core he trusts Lewis. He trusts Lewis more than anyone on track.

God, had they been fucking YouTube celebrities or something, he would’ve allowed himself to be with Lewis.

He would want Lewis in any other universe. Everywhere! Just not one where they’re rivals and not allowed to be together by contract. Legally not allowed to love each other, and yet nearly living in each other’s pockets. Yet the media is romanticising them. Yet Max is romanticising them.

As Lewis thrusts harder, the grip he has on Max’s wrists loosens, too focused on fucking into Max, to chase his own orgasm, to remember to keep Max in place. Max sees this as an opportunity to slip out of his grip, getting a hand around himself, to tug on his achingly hard cock and release some of the pressure. To get himself off around Lewis' dick. His dick is throbbing in his hand, ready to burst at the seams. He is leaking pearls of precome from the head of his dick, sliding down bit by bit. The precome helps the slide of his hand go smoother, and he is so fucking close to coming. He’s in too much of a haze to hear Lewis' muttering, but he picks up on some loose mine’s and Max’s from time to time. Max feels like he’s underwater, that everything happening around him happens slower than in real time. That every feeling is more intense, rippling through his entire body. He doesn’t want to swim to the surface, he wants to remain here forever.

Lewis slaps his hand away, forcefully. The contact of skin to skin has Max blinking wildly. Lewis explains, once Max meets his eyes, “I’m gonna eat the come out of you and suck you off. Do not come before that.”

Max nods frantically.

Lewis thrusts a few more times, hands finding a steady place on Max’s hips, and tightening on the skin. He knows it’ll leave bruises. He wants it to leave bruises. If this is Lewis' way of saying goodbye, then Max wants it to last as long as possible. He doesn’t have the right to make demands, but he can always hope, wish, dream. He feels how his own balls clench, and he’s barely even been touched. He can’t come, he isn’t allowed to. He focuses everything he can on Lewis, on Lewis' orgasm. He clenches down, wraps his legs around Lewis' hips and pushes him in closer. His hands are back to being pinned above his head, Lewis' grip punishingly tight around him. Lewis' eyes are wide, his jaw clenched. He grunts Max’s name, and Max nods, ready to receive Lewis' load any second now.

The hands on Max’s hips are brutal, but he isn’t one to complain. Lewis thrusts in twice more, then positions himself as deep into Max as he can. His come fills Max up, spurting deep inside him, hitting his prostate with every other rope of come. He bows his head down, catching his breath. His hair tickles Max’s chest.

Max gets a hand into Lewis' hair to pet him.

For a few seconds, Lewis lets him. He lets this tender moment exist between the two of them, lets them share a moment of softness.

Then, wordlessly, Lewis moves away, pulling out of Max and moving down to swirl his finger in his own come. He reaches out, feeding it to Max. Max moans around Lewis' finger, almost obscenely. He feels like such a helpless little slut under Lewis' piercing gaze. Max hollows his cheeks to give more of a show. If this is Lewis' way of saying goodbye, he wants to paint him an image that lasts.

Lewis' eyes are darker than Max’s ever seen them. He almost feels like Lewis is the one painting him an image to last.

Max relishes in Lewis' taste. It’s bitter, sure. But it’s not about the taste itself. It’s about Lewis, who is taking what he wants, telling Max to take what Lewis gives him. Who guides Max around, molding him like jelly. All this time Max thought he was leading their arrangement. He was swinging by. He went to Lewis the first time, back in Bahrain. He has fucked Lewis.

But now, Max realises that if Lewis hadn’t wanted this, Lewis wouldn’t have let it happen. That Lewis' the one who gets Max to visit him and the one to flirt annoyingly obviously with him during press conferences. That Lewis is the one who gets Max to blush. That Lewis is the one who leads this. And without Lewis, who would Max be?

Max feels himself falling deeper into his haze as Lewis feeds him finger after finger of his come. Then, once Lewis is satisfied, he moves down to press a kiss on Max’s groin, followed by a nasty bite on thin skin. He retreats his fingers from Max’s hole, and moves down to suck the remaining come out of him. The sounds he makes are obscene, and Max can’t help but feel overstimulated by all of it. He hasn’t even come. He feels like he’s bursting at the seams, ready to explode and leave the mortal world. Dead because of insatiable horniness caused by Lewis Hamilton. He’d be proud of that headstone.

Lewis licks his lips, making sure Max’s looking at him. He gets a finger inside Max again, and before Max can even think of commenting, Lewis closes his mouth around the head of Max’s cock. Max screams, ready to come any fucking second now. Lewis' mouth is hot around his cockhead, wetting his skin. His lips close a tight circle around Max’s dick, putting pressure right where he needs it.

But, tease as he is, Lewis gets another finger inside Max, grazing and pressing down on his prostate sinfully, taking Max deeper in his mouth.

“Lewis–” Max warns, voice urgent and strained. Lewis only has to bob his head a few times before Max’s coming down his throat, vision going white from how hard he just came.

Lewis sucks him clean dutifully, licking every last bit of oversensitive skin, even when Max hisses. Lewis sits back on his heels when he deems Max clean enough. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand once, sucking some remaining come from his fingers.

Once he gets his senses back, Max chuckles softly, “What in the hell was that for?” His tone is playful, grateful even.

Lewis huffs a laugh, dry, strained, humourless, “You can’t just, what, Max? Fucking break up with me and then get all friendly in the press circle with him.”

“Him? Who are you–” And then it dawns on Max. He shared a laugh with Daniel, his former teammate from whom he learned a lot, with whom he had a lot of fun, both on- and off-camera. He moves to lean on his elbows, but Lewis isn’t facing him. “Are you jealous of Daniel?”

Lewis' silence speaks volumes.

“Lewis!” Max laughs, sitting up. He reaches his arms out to touch Lewis. Lewis tentatively leans into Max, still not very convinced. He looks as if he believes Max’s ridiculing him. Max smiles brightly, hand tracing lines over Lewis' upper arm, “Please, I wouldn't want anything with him!” the I love you! gets stuck in Max’s throat. He swallows it down, blinking a few times. He focuses his attention on Lewis, not on the near slip-up.

Lewis waves his hands around, his eyebrows knitting together as if he’s contemplating his next life-changing decision. “You!-” He sighs, frustrated, “You literally break up with me and then be all jokey with him! What the fuck, Max!”

Max feels an indescribable warmth in his chest. His hips are sore, but he does his best to crawl over to Lewis. He cradles Lewis' face in his hands, getting Lewis to finally meet his eyes. God, he drowns in the bright stars and constellations that reflect in the depth of Lewis' dark brown eyes. He is so gone for him. “I stopped this because I wanted to protect you.”

“Well, I forgot to turn off a very important switch and ruined my whole-arse race because of you.” Lewis grunts, the frustration from the race covering every word. And yet there’s a playful grin not far away. He sighs, voice light, “A+ on protection.”

Max gets Lewis' face closer to him, rubbing Lewis' nose against his own. He whispers, “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

Lewis moves back, grabbing Max’s hands with his own, his eyes pleading, “Can you just never, ever scare me like that again? Thank you.” He takes a breath. His shoulders straighten and Max braces himself for a joke to come, a quip, something to lessen the tension and break this tender vibe of vulnerability they’ve fallen into, before they fall too deep and can’t crawl back to the surface of facades and rivals with benefits again. Max is so close to telling Lewis how much he loves him. He can’t do that. He prays to Lewis to shatter the tension, before he cracks himself.

Lewis smirks, “Be sure to swing by in France!” He kisses Max’s hands, drops them, and stands up to gather his clothes.

Max leans back on his hands. He sighs lovingly, “I have no choice, do I?” Part of him is worried for the future, how this is going to work out and affect their professionalism. There was a reason Max called it off, not because he simply didn’t feel like keeping it up. He called it off because he knows it’s not realistic for them to have this. For them to have gone this long without getting caught is already baffling to him. But maybe the universe is on his side, telling him he deserves this, even if it’s just for a few more races.

“Nope, you’ve no choice.” Lewis smiles, zipping his fly.

The other, bigger, more persistent part of him, is glad that this wasn’t a goodbye, that this wasn’t the end. That he can have more of Lewis, that he can touch more of Lewis, again and again. However he likes. However Lewis likes.

Max rolls his eyes fondly, “What did I get myself into.”

Lewis crawls into Max’s lap, smiling brightly. He tells Max’s lips, “My arse, literally.”

Max chuckles, and Lewis laughs with him. They’re laughing so close to each other, and find themselves yet again in a stress free situation where they can let their guards down and just enjoy being together. They’re laughing into each other's mouths, and then Max captures Lewis' lips in a soft and messy kiss. Lewis places his hands more insistently on Max’s hips, careful not to press on any bruises. They kiss, and kiss, slowly and filled with passion, not heated, but loving. The kiss isn’t going anywhere, and it feels like it’s never gonna end. Max takes his time licking into Lewis' mouth, tasting every last bit, writing his name in cursive on Lewis' tongue.

The kiss goes on for what feels like hours, but can realistically only be a handful of minutes. Really, Max should be getting whiplash from how wild, cold, and angry Lewis was only a little while ago, and how tender, warm, and loving he is now.

Max has Lewis' lip between his teeth and lets it slide out as Lewis slowly moves back. His hand pets Max’s hair and he’s smiling softly, skin seemingly illuminated with the sunshine Max’s addicted to, “I’m gonna go now, I’ll see you in France.”

“À bientôt, mon amour.” Having had a French teammate has its perks sometimes.

Lewis grabs his shirt and pulls it over his shoulders, covering up that illegally handsome chest again. Max would mourn the loss if he knew he wouldn’t ever see it again. Thank god he knows he can and will see it again, touch him again, kiss him again. Lewis chuckles, “I only know baguette and je t’aime.”

Max doesn’t laugh. He just looks at Lewis. Oh, he thinks, to hear him say je t’aime in all honesty.

Lewis leans down to kiss Max’s nose again, then straightens his back. “See ya,” He says, blind for whatever mild crisis Max’s going through.

He hears the front door to his little trailer close, and he feels just as empty as before Lewis showed up.

God, he loves Lewis so much, it’s pathetic.

❝ oh call me by your name

I do not care if you’re lyin’ ❞

paul ricard, france; june 19, 2021

Max is glad no one pays attention to him as he stands in front of Lewis' motorhome. The sun shines in such a way that he stands in the shadow when he knocks on Lewis' door. There’s excitement buzzing in every single one of his veins.

He won this race by good strategy choices, and was faster than Hamilton on track. His team took a risk by calling him in for new tires when he was leading the race, but staying out on the old ones was not an option. He’d drive them to hell and would have to let Hamilton overtake him. Instead, he pitted for new tires, pushed and pushed and overtook his rival in the pre-last race.

Sergio Perez managed to overtake Hamilton’s teammate Bottas as well, so the podium was filled with two Bulls, and Hamilton. It brought Max a lot of joy to be there with Sergio, to celebrate this victory all together.

And if he suddenly forgot how to speak because he looked at Lewis during the press conference, he hopes people will chalk it up to his adrenaline and not his undeniable love for the fella.

There’s a low, animalistic growl from the other side of the door. Max frowns, confused.

The door opens, and Lewis reaches out to pull Max inside by his shirt sleeve. Lewis throws the door shut after Max enters, and pulls him close to kiss him. Max smiles into the kiss, hands finding Lewis' waist. Lewis has his hands on Max’s face, guiding him so that they slot together better. Max sighs into it, thinking that this is what he wants. He wants nothing more than to come home to Lewis after every race, kiss the breath out of him and let his hands pull Lewis close. Together.

Distracted by the animal swirling around his legs, Max breaks the kiss briefly. He looks down to see a british bulldog’s legs and wag his curly tail. He bows down, extending a hand to let Roscoe smell him, then reaches out to pet him. Roscoe lets him, swirling around for his attention, for a moment or two before he retreats to his basket. He lay down, satisfied.

Max snickers, then stands up and turns his attention back to Lewis. Lewis seems to be glowing, suddenly. His eyes are shining and his smile is bright when he cups Max’s face again and presses kiss after kiss to his lips. Max moves back, mirroring his smile, “What are you smiling about?”

Lewis shrugs, but the crinkles around his eyes are undeniable, “‘S nothing. Just happy with you, man. This. Us.”

Max smiles back, all teeth and eye crinkles. Today is a perfect day. He had pole position, then got the fastest lap and won the race. There was nothing more for him to win, and now he’s here with Lewis in his arms too. He circles his finger on Lewis' hip. Before he says something embarrassing like I love you or I have never in my life felt this strongly for anyone, this love consumes my every thought and swirls around all of my senses, it’s encompassing every last bit of me and I wouldn’t want it any other way, he takes a breath.

“It’s your home,” Max smirks, referencing their first time together, “How do you want me?”

Lewis smiles, stepping back and extending his hand, “I’m not really in the mood for sex. Is it okay if we just sit on the couch and make out some more?”

Max takes his hand, “Yeah, sure.”

As Max follows Lewis to the couch and is guided to lay down so Lewis can straddle his hips while kissing him, he takes a moment to think of how far they’ve come since the first visit. It’s barely been three months, and yet he feels like a different man entirely. He’s gotten much closer to his seemingly unreachable crush. It’s been both amazing and terrifying for him. He’s finally accepted to himself that he doesn’t have a mere crush on Lewis, but is instead really in love with the guy. He wants to wake up next to him, wants to kiss his nose and forehead, wants to tie Lewis' hands to the headboard, wants to be blindfolded by him and surrender completely. Because if there’s one thing Max does more than love Lewis, it’s trust him. He trusts Lewis with every bit of him. Every single fiber in his body fully trusts Lewis and all that Lewis does, and wants to do, to him.

And not just in this weird little arrangement of theirs.

Professionally, on track, Max trusts Lewis too. It’s marvellous to see how well they work together, that even though they’re on competing teams, they let each other live. There've been many, many drivers in the past who’ve had fights outside of the track as well as on track. The media is really looking for that in them too; naming a video of their pre-race press conference something like the two title-contenders sit together, as if they’re ready to rip each other’s ears off any second. But in reality, both men know when they’re defeated, Lewis’ll let Max pass if he doesn’t have the tires to defend, since it just means he’ll have to get a better strategy in the next race. And if Lewis has enough overspeed to pass Max, Max won’t move to push him off the track. He’ll try and take the position back on another opportunity.

Either you drive the other off the track and take yourself down with them, or you settle for those 18 points, instead of 25. And 18 points are 18 points more than zero.

Max is completely lost in the taste of Lewis' mouth, a delicious mix of his own distinct saliva and the fresh peppermint of fading toothpaste. He can die happy with Lewis' lips on his own. He can die happy in Lewis' arms.

He can die happy with Lewis.

Lewis smirks into the kiss. Then he drags his lips along Max’s jawline, neck, and throat, sucking mark after mark into his skin almost obsessively. Max feels how every last inch of his skin gets Lewis' lips on it, and he can’t say he minds. He had mourned the fading marks when he looked into the mirror a few days ago, and had pressed on them to see if they could resurface — to no avail. They needed renewal, and he’s glad Lewis loves sucking and biting his skin time after time again.

Lewis huffs a devious laugh, then rolls his hips against Max’s. Max throws his head back — he had been growing hard under Lewis' touch, desperately trying to pay it no mind — and groans at the ceiling. He mutters, “Thought you weren’t in the mood.”

Lewis shrugs, fingers unbuttoning Max’s Red Bull shirt and throwing it away, “Changed my mind.”

Mere minutes later, Max is stripped bare under an equally naked Lewis, who grabs lube from under the couch, as if he had prepared for this. The previous relaxation of making out is replaced with a rushed hunger and desire, so Lewis doesn’t waste any time. He covers Max’s suddenly completely hard dick in lube, making Max’s cock twitch with every pass of his hand, and positions himself above to sink down. Max feels his hips jerking at the sudden warmth, unable to control himself. Lewis has a new kind of tightness he had never felt in a lover before, and he feels intoxicated.

Max loves this angle. He can hold Lewis' hips, dig his nails into the sun kissed skin to leave deep marks. He can look at Lewis' face as he falls apart above Max. He can let Lewis take charge and see just how gorgeous this man is, and how he’s all Max’s.

Lewis' eyes widen as he takes a deep breath, filling himself with all of Max. He says, “Fuck, you feel so good.”

“You too, babe,” Max groans back.

Lewis shakes his head, “No, you- you don’t understand. No one takes me apart like you do. God, Max. It’s like a whole new experience.” He rolls his hips and moans, tipping his head forward, “I feel you in my bones.”

Max chuckles fondly, one hand reaching up to cup Lewis' face, to guide him forward and kiss his lips, “I always feel you everywhere. All the time. When you’re near me, I want you closer. I’m never happy until-” he takes a breath, “Until moments like these.”

Lewis nods, eyes soft and shining, “Just us.”

“Just us.” Max repeats.

“Fuck,” Lewis groans. There seem to be words on his tongue, but he can’t find the language for it. He gets his hands on Max’s chest for leverage, preparing himself to ride Max. He blinks, and when he opens his eyes again, every bit of softness and loving (??? loving?? Max’s brain shrieks, needs further investigation) leaves his eyes as it turns sinfully mischievous. “Ready?” He asks, voice lower than Max’s ever heard before.

Max nods, “Always.”

“You’re gonna regret that.” Lewis points out, though there’s no bite to it.

Max smirks, “I’m gonna regret lots of things. Might as well.”

Lewis raises his eyebrow, smirking. It fades as he asks, seriously, “Trust me?”

“Always,” Max says immediately, though he is a bit confused where this is gonna go.

And then he feels Lewis' fingers walk over his chest, closer to his throat. Lewis mutters, “Tap anywhere on me to stop. But please, shut up.”

Max takes a shaky breath, nodding when he sees where it’s going.

Lewis moves his hips at the same time as he curls his hand around Max’s neck, choking him in the sexy way. At first he seems tentative, thinking with squinted eyes as if he’s searching for the bit of research he’s done deep in his brain. Then he falls into it, sees how Max’s taking this well. He bites his lip, “You’re so into this.” He rolls his hips again, and there’s no denying how Max got harder from this sudden switch in their scene. “So submissive for me.”

Max’s eyes roll into his head at that — for someone who’s often in control, losing it in safe hands is paradise. Lewis reads him splendidly, yet again. His hand is stronger around Max’s throat, flexing from time to time so Max can gasp for breath. He’s fucking Max so goddamn well.

Max’s sex life is ruined for the rest of his life if it’s not with Lewis.

Lewis' thighs are flexing at Max’s sides. His eyes are half-lidded, and his face is flushed. His movements are smooth, practised, as he sinks down onto Max’s dick time after time again. He’s sweating, panting, moaning. He fills the room with his noises, and Max wishes he could record this and listen to it for the rest of his life. He’s so gone, feeling like he’s on cloud nine, floating somewhere in space, only kept grounded by Lewis' strong arms.

He gets shaken out of this haze when Lewis stops, freezing completely. His hand shoots from Max’s neck to his mouth, refraining him from talking. Max takes a deep breath through his nose, then frowns when Lewis shushes him.

“What do you want?!” Lewis asks, bothered. Max thinks he’s missing something. Roscoe is near the door, growling at whoever is behind it.

“You’re late to debrief, Lewis!” The low and even more annoyed voice of Toto Wolff breaks through the precious walls and echoes all over the motor home.

Max hears the door handle turn, and sees how Lewis tenses up. He blinks twice, then screams, “I’m naked! Give me three minutes!”

Lewis' dog barks at the commotion, sensing Lewis' energy and siding with him, trying to get the intrusive voice away.

Max thinks that being almost caught by your boss would be a mood killer, but Lewis seems to be leaking more and more. Exhibitionist, Max notes, interesting.

“Fine!” Toto yells back, over the barking of the dogs, “Three minutes and not a second later. I’ll wait here.”

Lewis snarls, “I’m not a toddler, I know how to find the room.”

“You missed it.”

“I’ve never been late before, okay!” Lewis takes a breath. His boss means well, he knows, but he’s kind of in the middle of something. “Cut me some slack.”

“Fine, we need you though!” Toto screams. Max sees Lewis’ eyes shift from left to right, as if contemplating moving away and going into debrief, leaving Max here. “Three minutes!”

Roscoe’s barking subsides, and Lewis seems to conclude that Toto’s walked away.

“You okay?” Max asks, after Lewis removes his hand.

Lewis just leans down, kissing Max again, “That was close.”

“You are close.”

“Yeah.”

And Lewis grabs his own dick, jerking himself off, using his pre-come as lube. His free hand scratches Max’s chest as his pleasure grows. Max smirks, lifting Lewis' hips just slightly with his hands so he can fuck into Lewis whilst Lewis jerks himself off.

“Mm-Max!” Lewis moans, throwing his head back. And, really, it’s a wonder no one has heard them before, no one has passed by Lewis' motor home when the two of them are together and heard either of them scream out a name that shouldn’t lay on their tongue.

Max bites his lip. Really, Max’s name should be illegal to speak for anyone but sir Lewis Carl Davidson Hamilton.

Lewis orgasms, white stripes covering his chest as he comes and comes, clenching down on Max to drive him further to the edge. And then over it as Lewis' ass milks Max’s cock until he’s coming too, buried deep inside Lewis.

Lewis takes only a second to catch his breath, then grabs a washcloth to clean his chest and Max’s. He moves to slip out of Max, then curses, “Fuck.”

“What’s wrong?”

Lewis looks around, then back at Max, “Plug’s in the bedroom.”

Max bites his lip. If he isn’t careful, Lewis will be the death of him. “I’d offer to eat it out of you, but-“

“Yeah.” Lewis mourns.

“Can’t your dog fetch- no, no, never mind-“ Max laughs.

Lewis laughs with him, “Dude, I’m not gonna let my dog-“ He clutches his chest.

“Can you imagine, though? Little dog with a- with a-“ Max wheezes, unable to finish his own sentence.

“Oh thanks, Roscoe,” Lewis shoots at the dog, eyes crinkling as he smiles, “Thanks for fetching me my buttplug.”

“Oh my god!” Max laughs, wiping at his eyes. He falls into character, “Can’t believe you didn’t train your dog to grab your plug.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry I’m no Ceaser Millan.”

“Tsk, and here I thought you were boyfriend material.” Max bites his lip immediately after, worried he’s let his guard down so much he slipped up.

“Maybe,” Lewis says, looking at Max with his gorgeously dark eyes, “Just a shit dog trainer.” He leans down to kiss Max’s lips, and Max kisses back eagerly.

Somehow, Lewis manages to slip off of Max, losing very little come as he slides his boxers on before finding his black jeans, ripped at the knees. He mutters, more to himself than anything, “In case it leaks out, no one will spot the stain.”

Max knows he’s staring as he redresses himself, but he’s unable to tear his gaze away.

“You’re staring,” Lewis points out, swirling around. He places his hands on either side of Max’s hips, who’s leaning against the backrest of the couch.

Max hums.

Lewis smirks, stepping back, “You like these? I think they make my arse look splendid.”

“You look like an absolute slut,” Max comments, hungrily. He reaches out to pull Lewis closer and squeeze his ass.

Lewis freezes with a smile on his face. There’s a flush on his cheeks as he bites his lip.

“And you’re late for debrief,” Max points out, “For a hookup.” In case his slutty-Lewis point wasn’t clear enough.

“Not just any-“ Lewis stops himself, biting his lip. He moves closer to Max, “I’ll see you in Austria.” Max commits Lewis' comment to memory, too tired to investigate it further now.

Max gets a hand on Lewis' jawline and pulls him close for a kiss, “Survive your boss. For me, m’kay?” Can’t imagine living without you.

“I’ll try.” Lewis' shoulders relax. He smiles.

“Auf Wiedersehen, meine Liebe.” Max says, smiling brightly. Because saying ‘my love’ in any other language than English is safer. If Lewis were to point it out and hate it, Max can play it off as a joke, or something. Calling him ‘babe’ is normal, but ‘my love’ is too relationship-y.

And, hey, maybe this’ll be a small little thing between them, just Max calling Lewis his love in any language but English, while he secretly wishes for Lewis to respond with ‘I love you’ in any language but English.

And then, maybe one day, they’ll dare to say it in English to each other. And really mean it.

“Hmm,” Lewis hums, thinking. He taps his chin, then realises he’s late and shakes his head.

“What’re you searching for?” Max smiles.

“I know like three words in German.”

“Which ones?”

“Ich liebe dich.” But Lewis doesn’t say it to Max, he says it as an answer to Max’s question, to say, this is what I know and not this is what I think.

“You’re looking for Tschüss.” Max states, driving the topic away from those three words. He tries not to look too much into the fact that Lewis seems to know how to say ‘I love you’ in both French and German, and nothing else.

“Yeah!” Lewis smiles, “Tsjuuz.”

Max pats Lewis' ass playfully, “Tsjuuz, babe.” He mocks.

Lewis has a light blush on his cheeks when he walks away. Max chalks it up to him not being familiar with speaking in a foreign language. And not to the fact that Max called Lewis ‘babe ’again and Lewis seems to have developed a certain soft reaction to it.

Max takes a breath, one more look around the messy motorhome, and walks to the door. He hears the soft purring of Lewis' dog in his basket, and smiles at the calm being. He pets Roscoe, and whispers, “Don’t tell your owner, but I think I might be in love with him.” Max feels his heart thudding in his chest. It feels relieving to say this out loud for the first time. Harmless, and yet he’s said it to someone. He really has fallen deeply for Lewis, and can’t help but feel like he’s falling deeper and deeper. He can’t wait until the season’s over, when he can see if he can take Lewis on a serious date then. See if Lewis will be up for that. If it ends with them having sex and no feelings, again, then that’ll be okay. Max’ll have tried and he’ll have closure. If it ends with them getting together, or maybe just admitting feelings to each other and taking it nowhere, then that is okay too. He’ll have said it. He stands up to leave before he spirals too much in his own head. He has to head back to his trailer before Christian comes looking for him.

Roscoe sleeps on.

—

Once Max’s settled on the plane, he whips out his phone to look up Lewis' dog. He didn’t mean to go looking for anything related to Lewis, but apparently his Instagram algorithm is paying close attention to his interest in Lewis, since it’s now suggested the account of Lewis' dogs. He skims through the photos, occasionally liking a post and trying desperately to find more images of Lewis, guard low and relaxed when he’s just with his dog. At one point, he finds an old interview Lewis had given where he talks about the two of them — Max learned now that he used to have another dog called Coco that passed away. They stay with Lewis' parents when Lewis is on far trips, and their parents take charge of the roscoelovescoco-instagram-page when he’s away. He’s always been a dog lover, and- and-

“My dog is a really good matchmaker- well, well, not matchmaker, but he decides whether someone’s gonna be fitting for me or not. If he doesn’t like a lover of mine, the relationship usually ends up being nothing. Call it a self-fulfilling prophecy, maybe. But he is a big factor in whether or not I’ll take a relationship seriously.” Lewis laughs, then whispers almost secretively, “Roscoe hates Toto, for one. Whenever he’s near, he’ll go wild. So, there will definitely be no romance between us, haha!”

Max takes a breath. Fuck, he passed the relationship test without knowing. Would Lewis see him as something serious, now that his dog approves of him? Is that why he was shining so brightly when Max petted Roscoe? It can’t be real, they’re nowhere near to a serious relationship. They’re just colleagues that have sex! Lewis can’t think of him as boyfriend material, can he? Right? Right? Max takes a deep breath, throwing his phone on the little table in front of him. He takes a chug of his beer, washing away his worries. To his side, Sergio is in conversation with Christian. They’re both talking happily about this race and the results. The rest of the plane seems to be chatting with one another too.

Max is glad no one is paying attention to him.

styria, austria; june 27, 2021

There is no feeling quite as euphoric as winning a race.

And Max didn’t just win this race — no, he started pole position, led all fucking seventy eight laps (take that, Catalunya!), and won the race. He thought this race was rather boring in the best way ever. He just had to drive, take a turn, open his DRS when he could, take another turn and boom! Finish line. And he had Lewis beside him on the podium, and nothing was more wonderful than that.

His phone buzzes, and Max smirks as he reads who sent the message.

[Lewis]: hey winner. don’t swing by after the race, valtteri’s here.
[Lewis]: i’ve plans for later tonight, wait in your trailer for me, wear something comfortable.

Max bites his lip. Aside from Lewis' visit in Monaco, the two of them have never met other than right after a race. His fingers tingle with excitement as he types his message back.

hmm curious. Are you bringing that blindfold you bought? [Max]

[Lewis]: shut up Max. don't want valtteri to read along do you?

You wouldn’t mind, would you?
being seen like that… [Max]
flustered, put in your place… [Max]
right in front of your colleague… [Max]

Max thinks about how Lewis' dick suddenly got much harder when his boss called, when they were so close to getting caught.

[Lewis]: see u tonight x

Max sighs, only mildly disappointed. Alright, no sexting for now. He sends back an ‘😚’ and switches to the Instagram app, skimming through the other drivers’ posts and dropping a like left and right. Anything to get his mind off of Lewis' plans. And that dumb, cheesy ‘X’ he sent. Almost like they’re dating, and Max is rather certain he’d remember something as vital as that.

—

Max couldn’t take his mind off of the possibilities of Lewis' plan. He spent debrief in a haze, and the others looked sympathetic, chalking it up to his win.

He lies on his couch, skimming through some late race results and mathematical equations about his car and speed. He is wearing new, dark blue jogging pants from his clothing line with Red Bull, and a simple white shirt. He tries to keep himself awake by forcing himself to take notes from the information in front of him, but it's tough to keep his mind from wandering to Lewis.

There’s a weird tension in the air between them.

They’ve settled on some sort of schedule, and have found ways to be comfortable with each other and yet be free enough to explore what they like and dislike, but they’re no strangers to each other’s bodies anymore. On one hand, Max wonders if this is what friends with benefits do. On the other hand, he’s certain there’s something else going on between them. There’s slightly too much that isn’t platonic, or things that — aside from the sex itself — Max wouldn’t do with his friends. Things Max would do with lovers. Things lovers would do with Max. Like calling each other babe, saying their i-love-yous in different languages, kissing each other’s noses, saying they don’t want to share each other, or buying sex toys for sex with each other.

Max takes a deep breath and adds this to his growing pile of evidence this was something more than casual.

It’s a little after midnight when Max hears a knock on his door. He bolts up from his position, excited, curious, and walks to the door. For a split second, he worries about opening up to Christian, maybe after he passed by and saw his lights still on, stopping in to tell him to go to sleep and analyze this all tomorrow.

He’s more than delighted to see Lewis.

He pulls Lewis inside, and Lewis stands up on his tiptoes to meet his lips. The kiss is chaste, but makes Max’s heart swell with love for his shorter counterpart. He relishes in domestic moments like these.

… maybe he should add that to the pile of ERS (Evidence of Romantic Seriousness).

“You ready?” Lewis asks, bright-eyed as he grabs Max’s hand.

Max can’t help his smile, even as he raises an eyebrow, “What are you planning?”

“I was thinking of going into town!” Lewis swings their interlocked hands from left to right, “Maybe buy some food and eat it in a park, somewhere?”

A picnic, Max thinks, Lewis' inviting you on a picnic date.

He was about to say Yes! Let’s do it! when the painful realisation hit him — there is no way the two title rivals can have a fun date in the middle of the town where the races are held. Max is even seen as a local hero, after winning the race at the Red Bull Ring. His face, if not the color he’s so associated with, must be everywhere. Way too risky.

“Darling,” Max says seriously. He cups Lewis' cheek and Lewis' smile falls instantly, “There’s no way we can go into the town where two races are held right after each other, without being recognised.”

Lewis deflates, “Oh– yeah, fuck, of course.”

He must've been so caught up in the idea of taking Max out, that he momentarily forgot all that brings them together: the sport. Dating whilst being a celebrity of sorts it very tough, but especially when you're dating potentially the biggest rival you've ever faced in your career - which goes for both of them.

“But,” Max says immediately, unable to bear the sadness on Lewis' face and the way his shoulders fell. He squeezes Lewis' hand and Lewis smiles tentatively again, “We could go onto the grid and just… lay in the grass? I’ve seen some pictures of pretty flowers near the track?”

Lewis' face brightens up again, and he smiles, “Yes! Let’s do that, then!”

“How are we getting off the paddock, though?”

"I'm gonna grab my dog. If Toto checks my logs and asks, I'll tell him I went on a night stroll."

“I-“ Max starts, then chuckles, “Don’t have dogs.”

“Jump over the fence.”

“What?” Max asks flatly.

“Didn’t you see that video of Lando? He forgot his pass like last season and just hopped over the thing.”

Max chuckles, trying to visualise the idea of Lando jumping over the electrical fence where one normally scans their card to pass through. He then wonders if he can do that himself.

“Sure.” Max is still laughing at the idea, “I’ll try that.”

—

For some reason, it works. There is no guard lingering around the entrance of the paddock, so Max jumps over the fence and walks away far enough to be out of the bright light. He wonders distantly if people have tried this before and passed onto the track illegally, but soothes his own mind by telling himself that a guard might’ve seen him, recognised him, and then let him go.

Max watches as Lewis approaches, the bright white light of the entrance at his back, illuminating his silhouette like he’s walking down from heaven. Roscoe’s leash is held loosely in his hand, and the bulldog follows him dutifully. He’s wearing a sweater of Max’s, one he stole a few weeks ago, and it makes Max swallow down a possessive gulp.

Max makes out that Lewis' hair is messy when Lewis stops right in front of him. He looks up at Max, waiting for a greeting, smiling bright.

Max extends his hand, and Lewis takes it. They walk hand in hand around the paddock and onto the fields around the track. Max takes a deep breath and relishes in the feeling of Lewis' warm hand in his own. He wishes for just one moment they could do this again, and again, and again, and maybe one day in public, for everyone to see. He wants to hold Lewis' hand for the rest of his life and never ever let go.

When they arrive at the fields, Roscoe quickly finds a comfortable spot to lay down. As he kicks off his shoes, Lewis muses, “I could really go for a picnic right now.”

Max leans in close to Lewis' ear, kisses his jawline and says, “Hmm, you bring the wine and I'll get the charcuterie next time.”

Lewis chuckles, “Hmm, oui oui, monsieur.” He sits down on the grass after laying down a spare sweater he had brought. Max lays on the grass beside him, looking up at the night’s sky. He’s still holding Lewis' hand as he counts the stars and searches for constellations he recognises.

He laughs, “Learned two more words, did ya?”

Lewis lays down too, on his side and facing Max, “Don’t get high hopes, mon amour.”

Max gasps, “Oh boy, I’m here with a real Frenchman!” He rests his hands under his head. There’s something inherently romantic about this entire setting, the two of them speaking half-assed French under the stars after sneaking out of their houses to spend time together. The flowers, though their colours are barely visible in the darkness of the night, dance in the soft breeze like waves that wash over one another. It’s their own version of Romeo and Juliet, but then with a lot more sex and absolutely zero explicit love confessions.

“When I’m in France, call me Louis.”

Max huffs a laugh, “Shame we’re not in France anymore, though. Here, you have to use guten morgen and Senf.”

Lewis knits his eyebrows together, “What’s Senf mean?”

“Mustard.”

“Woah hold up,” Lewis sits up and looks down at Max, “You act all Mr. Worldwide on me and then you come at me with mustard.”

“Okay,” Max chuckles, “but imagine you’re in a restaurant and you really want some mustard.” He points at Lewis, “Don’t come running to me to ask for it.”

“No, no, wait, now I wanna know,” Lewis crosses his arms, leaning in closer to Max. Max watches how a string of Lewis' hair falls on his forehead, covering a part of his eye. He fights the urge to move it behind Lewis' ear. Lewis' eyes are filled with a challenge, and Max finds himself more focused than ever to win, “How do you ask for mustard in a German restaurant?”

“Um-“ Max stutters, not actually knowing how to do that but too proud to admit, “Take me on a date and you might find out,” He winks, hoping Lewis can't see the dark blush on his cheeks in the darkness.

“That’s what I suggested! Weren’t you the one that said we can’t go out?” Lewis raises an eyebrow.

Max’s heart skips a beat at the idea of a date with Lewis, all fancy suits and high class restaurants, followed with lazy love making at either of their homes in a comfortable bed. Or maybe wearing casual clothes on their way to a take out pizza place, before walking through the park searching for a spot to sit down and enjoy their meal, and maybe making out on just this side of decent in the public fields. “Fair, fair.”

“Maybe one day,” Lewis says, and he takes Max’s hand in his own again, as if he has gotten just as addicted to the feeling as Max has.

“Maybe one day,” Max repeats, hoping that they will have just a fraction more time so that they can make this promise true. He moves their joint hands to his mouth and kisses Lewis'.

Geez, this isn’t really what friends with benefits do, huh? Another one on the pile.

—

Max was just about to point out a constellation he recognises, after squinting his eyes and trying to connect dots through the terrible pollution, when Lewis sighs and moves. Max follows every movement, and feels the heavy, warm weight of Lewis in his lap, thighs on either side of his own. He lays down, wiggles around a bit, and fits one of his legs in between Max’s. Then he takes a deep breath through his nose, and as he exhales, he slumps against Max’s body, utterly relaxed.

Max feels absolutely delighted at the sheer trust Lewis is showing with this movement. He moves a hand up to pet Lewis' hair, fingers entangled with the braids. It almost feels like their night in Max’s house in Monaco, except there they had more privacy and time.

Max relishes in memories and looks back up to the sky, searching for that constellation he thought he recognised, and counting the few stars he can see. He knows that whenever he sees the Little Bear high up in the sky, he’ll be reminded of Lewis' weight on his chest, this one cold summer night in Austria. Lewis is kind of a little bear to him, warm and cuddly on his chest. Maybe that's a cute nickname.

Do friends with benefits give each other nicknames?

Max shakes the thought away, just enjoying Lewis' company. He looks down at the little guy, and sees how he’s breathing slowly, steadily, and how he gets heavier and heavier the more he lets go.

Max mutters, “Don’t fall asleep,” and presses a kiss to Lewis' crown, “I’m not dragging you to your home.”

“You’d leave me out here?” Lewis turns his head so that he can look at Max properly. He folds his hands under his chin and rests on Max’s chest.

“Yeah,” Max jokes.

“What the fuck, Max.” Lewis says, but he’s grinning. He rolls his lips over each other and tries to hide his smile.

“You’d do the same.”

Lewis opens his mouth and then shuts it again.

Max smirks, “See?”

“Shut up, Max.” Lewis huffs a fond laugh, then wiggles his hips as if to bring his upper legs back to life and oh—

Oh.

“Oh.” Lewis freezes, then looks at Max again and smirks, “So that’s what you were thinking of, huh?”

“Lewis, you don’t—“ Max thinks his body has incredibly poor timing for generating a boner while he calmly watches the stars with Lewis. He can’t help it, for some reason Lewis-And-Max-Private-Moments have given Max a Pavlovian reaction that results in boners, desire, and pining.

“No, no worries, it’s okay that you’re a little exhibitionist.” Lewis says as he crawls up to sit in between Max’s legs.

“Ha,” Max chuckles, “Like you aren’t.” He didn’t forget that almost-run-in with Toto, and how Lewis' dick got much, much harder as he fucked Max while screaming at Toto through a wall.

Lewis just looks at Max in response. Max knows that, despite it being dark outside and hard to make out any colors, Lewis' eyes are very dark, in a way that makes Max shiver. Dark like he’s ready to devour Max at any given moment.

Lewis trails a line with his fingers over Max’s chest to the waistband of his jogging pants. He fidgets with the ropes and unties it, then gets his hand down into Max’s boxer briefs, jerking him a few times sloppily as if to get Max’s attention - as if he didn’t have it already. Max groans loudly, breathing out a shuddering breath as he arches his back.

“You gotta be quiet babe,” Lewis says, “Or people might hear you moaning for me.”

Max nods softly, a little helplessly, as he gets his fist in his mouth and bites down on his own skin, while Lewis starts moving his pants lower, and places kiss after kiss to Max’s groin. Max is never loud in bed — there’s just something about the way Lewis seems to discover new senses that ignite fires all over his body with ease. It has Max giving up control and letting his voice get wrecked by whatever Lewis does, shamelessly. He has never considered being loud in bed as some sort of trust-case, but he feels like he can trust Lewis with everything and anything, including loud moans he never heard himself utter ever before.

Without any warning, Lewis moves up and takes the head of Max’s dick in his mouth, enveloping him in sudden warmth and wetness. Max’s fist falls away and he groans. He settles for tugging Lewis' hair instead as he pants heavily.

Lewis looks up, waiting for Max’s body to calm down before continuing on. Max meets Lewis' eyes and the mother fucker winks before he swirls his tongue below the head, turning Max into a shaking mess. Lewis skillfully finds his way around Max’s dick and sucks him off with hollowed cheeks like it’s nothing.

The hand in Lewis' hair is tugging and pulling, and Max feels like that is his lifeline. Without the grip on Lewis' head, he’d be floating to outer space, elevated from his place in the grass and surrendered to whatever force would pull him away from earth. Lewis' nose nuzzles Max’s pubic hair, and Max finds the ease with which Lewis sucks him fully unfathomable. All the while, Lewis' fingers marvel over Max’s legs and thighs and squeeze him to get his mind grounded again. His fingers inch closer to Max’s dick, and for a second, Max worries Lewis might move to jerk him, and Max wouldn’t last at all.

Instead, Lewis' fingers do something much, much worse — they move down to brush Max’s hole at the same time as he swirls his tongue around Max’s head again. Lewis pops off of Max’s dick and moves down to kiss his thigh. He sucks in the skin, and leaves a deep purple mark Max’s going to feel every time he sits down or moves around.

Lewis hums, “You can hold off coming for a little while longer, right?”

Max takes a deep breath to calm his entire body down, “Probably not.”

“But you’re gonna try, right babe?”

“Y- Yes, Lewis.”

“Good, good.”

Max thinks Lewis is going to return to whatever the fuck he is planning, but instead finds him hesitating, knitting his eyebrows together. He busies himself with removing Max’s pants from him entirely, throwing them somewhere on the grass before saying, “Oh, and you’re gonna be a bit more quiet, right darling? Otherwise I might have to choke you again.”

Max lets his head fall back as he groans, his dick visibly twitching.

“Mmmmaaaybe another time,” Lewis chuckles. He moves down to Max’s hole and tells the ring of muscles, “Be quiet, be quiet.”

And then Lewis moves down to lick Max’s hole, pressing his tongue inside after wetting the skin. Max’s legs stretch over Lewis' shoulders and he clings to Lewis' hair. He is panting like hell, the heat in his lower body swirling around his core, around every vein and muscle inside of his skin and spreading from his head to his curled toes, all-encompassing and so filled with love and lust.

Faintly he thinks he hears a noise, but then Lewis curls one finger around his dick and touches it, as if to remind Max he’s so on the edge and holding on — for Lewis.

Lewis' mouth and tongue is absolutely magical — he sucks and licks Max like he was born to do nothing else, like he has found all the buttons to Max’s body and presses them in the right order, rendering Max a whimpering and screaming mess. His mouth is magical, and Max feels possessed by the amount of pleasure raging through his body.

Lewis moves away from his ass and gets Max’s cockhead in his mouth again, whilst replacing his tongue by pressing his fingers inside Max’s willing and empty hole.

Max is so close — Lewis is too much. He is everywhere, touching him everywhere, taking over every desire of his body and fulfilling it like he was meant to. And now he hollows his cheeks again and hums around Max’s dick and Max is absolutely useless then.

Max comes with a very loud, “Lewis!” uncaring about who might hear, or maybe wanting people to hear.

Lewis keeps his lips wrapped tightly around Max's cock as he pulls back, sucking as he goes. When his lips are around Max's sensitive cockhead, he swallows the come, and Max whimpers as he feels it. Lewis licks him clean before setting his hand on Max's thighs and looks at him.

He chuckles, “If someone on the paddock was awake,” His voice is hoarse and so fucking sexy. This whole smug attitude would be bothering Max had he not just received the best oral sex of his life, “They definitely heard that.” His tone is neutral, uncaring.

“I don’t care,” Max rasps, “You fucking took me apart with your tongue.”

Lewis cocks his head to the side, “And the world can know?”

“I’ll scream it off the rooftops man. That was insane.”

Lewis bites his lip, cheeks undoubtedly blushing in the dark as he looks around. His gaze lingers and he laughs, “Can’t believe we did that in front of Roscoe”

Max looks over at the pile of fur a few meters away from them. Roscoe is asleep, thank fuck. “He has seen worse,” Max hums, recalling a week ago where Max got choked on the couch while Roscoe laid in his own bed.

“That- Yeah, that’s fair.”

Lewis takes his time redressing Max, after having waved off Max’s offer of helping Lewis get off. Lewis scratches behind his ear, grabbing Max’s hand and leading it to his clothed crotch. Max feels the wet fabric, and looks up at Lewis, eyes wide. Lewis merely shrugs, “You look good, screaming my name, m’kay.”

Max swallows audibly and thinks, that’s so hot. He checks his watch, “It’s past two, Lewis. I think we should go home.”

“Yeah,” Lewis hums, but neither man makes a move to go.

Max jokes, “It’s almost the witching hour.”

He sees Lewis shiver and looks around, eyes smaller than they’ve been all night, “I don’t think witches would like the car noises and whirring motors all the time.”

“Who knows, maybe there’s some vroom-vroom witches out there.”

“Vroom-“ Lewis wheezes, hand clutching his tummy as he brightens visibly. This, Max thinks, is his favorite Lewis. Laughs take over his entire body as he shakes and gasps for breath, eyes crinkling and smile bright, white teeth on full display. Lewis rises to his feet, “Come on, we have to go before you accidentally summon a demon with your post-nut high.”

“Hey!” Max rises with Lewis, “That was one hell of a job you did on me.”

“Thanks,” Lewis says, almost shy, “Now let’s go.”

“Okay.”

—

They walked back to the grid in silence, hands clutching each other as if they’re lifelines. When they get too close to the guard’s possible line of sight, Lewis stands up his tiptoes to kiss Max’s jawline before dropping their hands and taking a small sprint back to the grid.

Max stays behind, looking at Lewis in awe. The love of his life is running and pretending he went on a long, nightly walk with his dog. Max swallows a tight feeling in his throat. The love he feels is starting to take over every last piece of him, simmering slowly and tainting every normal thought into one involving Lewis. He has to do something about it, and do it soon, because this is the reason he created the ERS pile in the first place. He worries he might not be able to carry it much longer.

After a few minutes, Max heads onto the grid as well, running and jumping over the fence, making a quick beeline for his trailer. He hopes no one sees him, or that he’ll have enough time to whip up an excuse before someone does.

Max falls onto the bed, and can’t help but whisper to the darkness of his empty bedroom, if only we had more time.

There really is no feeling as euphoric as winning a race.

styria, austria; july 4, 2021

Max feels special.

Winning three races in three weeks marks Max as the only formula one driver to ever have done such a thing — a unique record, something truly special. The team decides to go wild and celebrate it big. Max is dragged from left to right, handed drinks and posing for pictures, and tossing the trophy around left and right. He didn’t even have time to text Lewis he wasn’t swinging by.

Frankly, he hasn’t had time to think of Lewis at all.

Which gave him some time to think about… well, things outside Lewis, like his job, his career, his team, the world championship. Sure, Lewis' face is everywhere he goes and everyone asks about him all the time. But when Max is in his racing suit talking about how he started first and drove victory home with ease, Lewis nowhere in sight, he feels like he’s talking about a completely different Lewis than the one who took him apart with his tongue on the fields where Max-fans are jumping around and celebrating. There’s the Lewis in Max’s heart, in Max’s sweater with Max’s hickey’s, and there’s the Lewis on track who he had to battle to win because that’s his passion and what he gets paid for.

Max gets thrown from one hug into the next, passing around the love and euphoria with his team, who’s working just as hard for his success as he is himself. He relishes in the celebrations, hair colored with remainder confetti, head in the clouds from the booze and praise, endorphins raging through his body. The party goes on for hours after the race, and Christian had rescheduled debrief, pushing it back a day so everyone could fully enjoy the celebrations and not think about work. There are lots of pictures being taken, a handful of interviews to be held, a press conference for Max, but most of all, lots of hugs and love from the people that work with him to get this result.

It's late in the evening when Max heads back to his motorhome.

He has an early flight, but enough time to catch some Z's before he has to put his business mode on again. He opens his door, expecting to be met with a dark void to pass through as he makes a beeline to his bedroom and where he can promptly pass out.

Instead...

Instead, he hears whiny noises, and his eyes shoot to a very desperate Lewis, lying on Max's couch, jerking off, Max's sweater on his shoulder. Max recognizes the sweater as one he brought to this race specifically, so Lewis must've searched for it in his drawer. His dick is shiny with lube and so hard in his hold. He’s slowly jerking himself as he locks eyes with Max, eyebrows knitted, and he bites his lips — an absolutely pornographic image.

Max quickly closes the door after himself, locking it. "What are you doing?" he breathes, feeling the heat in his own tummy get amped up a lot, flooding through his veins and curling around his insides.

“I- ah- you’re here!” Lewis' hand moves a bit faster again, as if he plans on getting off right in front of Max, as if Max’s presence would be enough to tip him over the edge, “I waited so long but- but you were celebrating and I just- I just- I came here, your door was opened and- and I found your sweater, Max- I-”

Max wants none of that. He walks over to Lewis and hovers over him, hand curling over Lewis' on his dick, slowing him to a halt, “Stop that.”

Lewis obeys, eyes wide.

Max’s brain is suddenly awake, functioning, once he gets over the haze of lust-filled surprise. He takes a deep breath, his muscles coming back to life as he takes control of his body again, “I thought I taught you a lesson in patience before.” Max raises an eyebrow, “But apparently you’re so cock-hungry, you couldn’t even wait until I swung by.”

Lewis blinks a few times, and moans, “Please.”

Max straightens his back, hand leaving Lewis' and putting space in between them. “I am going to shower because I'm drenched in champagne. You are going to walk back to your trailer, grab those handcuffs you bought in Italy and lock yourself wherever you can on the bed, and you wait.”

Lewis gulps, his Adam's apple bobbing.

Max smirks and leans down, kissing Lewis bruisingly, open-mouthed, bleeding every part of his desire into the kiss. He renders Lewis breathless as he kisses and kisses. Lewis moves his arms up to cup Max’s face, to keep him in place, but Max moves away, “Go fetch, pretty boy.”

Lewis scrambles to his feet, nearly falling off the couch and stumbling over it afterward. He fidgets with his zipper, hands shaking, as he tucks himself back in his pants. He has been leaking, and his dick was sticky from lube too, so he smears the mess all over his hand and a bit on his briefs as he tries to make himself look presentable.

Max watches in awe as Lewis obeys his command. He pats Lewis on his ass before Lewis heads out.

He takes all the time in the world as he heads to the shower. He undresses and folds his clothes, turns on the shower, and waits for it to heat up, as he checks himself in the mirror. He looks different than he had a few months ago -- more mature, confident, but also still undoubtedly Max Verstappen. He feels comfortable in his skin in a way he hasn’t in a long time, and even his dad hasn’t been able to bother him too much. Sure, the man and his loud voice and demands and never-satisfied-always-more-and-better attitude get to Max’s head from time to time, but he feels like he’ll be okay, regardless of his dad’s approval or thoughts. He hasn’t told his dad about Lewis, and he doesn’t plan on doing so either. This is his choice. He’s a grown adult. He chooses Lewis, and he chooses racing. They can coexist - he and Lewis can make it work. And if not, he’ll bear the consequences and get over it. But he’s having the most fun he’s had in a long time, choosing something for himself, selfish in a way he hasn’t done a lot in his life.

He steps under the shower and cleans himself, everywhere. He prepares himself for Lewis, opening himself up where needed but not stimulating anything. He’s making a plan in his head, and the idea alone is getting him hard.

And if he stays under the hot spray of water for a minute or five longer than he usually would, because he has to calm his breathing and his thinking down a bit, then that’s his business and his alone.

He brings a cloud of steam along with him as he steps out of the bathroom, a towel knotted loosely around his hips. Before him lies Lewis Hamilton, a gorgeous sight. It’s something he wants to burn into his retinas so he won’t ever forget it. Lewis' hands are cuffed together, over his head and around a piece of the headboard. He’s naked, fucking hard, and leaking so much there’s a small puddle on his stomach. His muscles are freely on display, flexing with every shaky breath he takes.

Max gulps, hungry. He looks at Lewis with dark eyes, dominance filling his veins as he puts his plan in motion. He drops the towel, crawling on his knees over the bed, legs on either side of Lewis, until the tip of his dick meets Lewis' mouth. Max grunts, voice low as he says, “Suck. Tap your feet to stop.”

Lewis nods, parting his lips. Max gets a hand around himself to guide him onto Lewis' lips, smearing his pre-come around like lipstick before inching into Lewis' mouth, in an agonizingly slow pace. He wants Lewis to beg for him to want more, and then refuse to give him, since he’s so impatient and needy. Max doesn’t mind, but he loves it when Lewis begs. He’s about halfway when Lewis snaps his eyes up to meet Max's. He looks so sinfully gorgeous, cock in his mouth, cheeks flushed and stretching around his dick, and eyes pleading as he gulps Max down. Max stalls, for a moment, just to tease. He grins and hears how the metal of Lewis' handcuffs clink around the headboard as if he’s trying to reach out.

He slips back out of Lewis' mouth, but before his cockhead slides over Lewis' lips fully, he thrusts his dick back in, forcing Lewis to deepthroat him suddenly. Lewis coughs around Max’s dick, muffled. His eyes are watering.

He doesn’t tap his feet.

Max doesn’t stop.

Max moves his dick out slowly, and then in again, full force. He settles on a quick rhythm but alternates with slow thrusts. He knows he’s edging himself, and could get off much easier if he fucked Lewis' face relentlessly.

But he’s here to teach Lewis another lesson in patience, too. So he edges himself and edges Lewis.

Max moans, then says, “You’re not coming until I say so, are you?”

Lewis hums around his dick, face shaking slightly. He blinks, and focuses on taking Max again and again.

“Hollow your cheeks, babe- ah- yeah, yeah,” Max moans shamelessly, huffing shallow breaths as Lewis sucks him. Lewis is sucking him masterfully, and Jesus, Max’s convinced the guy has an oral fixation.

He’s so good with that mouth.

There’s heat pooling in Max’s belly as his eyes roll to the back of his head. Lewis has always been amazing at giving head -- the few times Max’s received a blowjob from Lewis have been insanely masterful. Lewis seems to know exactly what Max likes, where, and when. He knows all the buttons to Max’s nervous system and presses them carelessly, always keeping Max on edge, close.

“Lewis-” Max moans, “Cl-close, swallow it all.”

Max feels Lewis smirk around his dick, ready. He grazes his teeth over Max’s sensitive skin briefly, and Max grunts. He tangles his hand in Lewis' hair and fucks his mouth harshly in response, making Lewis take it all, choke around his cock, as punishment. The metal around the headboard clinks loudly, and Lewis' hands are shaking. Max smirks, one hand reaching out to hold Lewis', and Lewis immediately squeezes for support.

Lewis swirls his tongue around Max’s dick, and Max feels himself coming all the way from his curled toes to his fingers intertwined with Lewis'. He comes, and the heat curls around his spine, around his veins and senses. His vision turns white as his thrusting stops, and he feels Lewis swallowing around him, then licking his dick clean in soft kitten licks.

“Fuck!” Max moans, petting Lewis' hair praisingly, way after he’s come. He gets his dick out of Lewis' mouth and lets him catch his breath.

“Fuck indeed,” Lewis rasps, but his voice is close to gone. Max did that. Max’s dick fucked Lewis' vocal cords so much he could barely speak, “Fuck, that was so hot. I cannot believe you.” He’s blushing, which is hilarious considering he just got facefucked to the next dimension.

Max’s hand in Lewis' hair gets softer, and he cups his cheek, moving his face up so Max can press a kiss on his lips. “You did so well, taking me like that.” Then he looks down at Lewis' dick, cockhead a demanding shade of red, precome sticky all over him, “I’m gonna fuck myself on your dick now, okay?” And because he can’t help himself today, he winks, “Shame you can’t touch me with those cuffs, though.”

Lewis rattles the handcuffs, and his shaking reveals a red line in his skin. He’s been pulling the metal so much, it almost cut in his skin. He clearly wants to let go and be free so badly. He moans, “Please.”

Max shakes his head, “Be grateful for what I give you.”

“Sorry, sir. You’re right.”

Max almost comes again at the title.

He leans over to grab the lube from his nightstand drawer and coats his hand graciously. He holds Lewis' dick with a feather-light touch, making sure to avoid tipping him over the edge. Max takes his time sinking down on Lewis' dick, feeling how his body adjusts to the width of it. In all this time, he’s barely gotten the chance to fuck himself on that gorgeous, thick dick of Lewis', using him as a dildo.

“Max,” Lewis breathes, head thrown back, handcuffs rattling.

“Lewis,” Max mocks, leaning forward to suck a deep purple bruise onto Lewis' skin. Lewis groans low, and it trembles all through his body. He’s so very close to the edge, and it has Max contemplating making him wait for it. He smirks, oh, to hear Lewis beg a few more times would be the cherry on top of this ravishing cake.

“Please, just a bit more-” Lewis is faster to beg than Max had expected - he must really be desperate. Max sees how Lewis struggles to keep his eyes opened, but he’s determined as he focuses on Max.

Max leans in to kiss Lewis, and halts his hips entirely. He whispers against Lewis' lips, “Patience, dear. Good things take time.”

“Fuck- I’m so close, this is torture.” Lewis grunts, hands shaking and metal clacking.

“Next time we finish a race, you wait for me.” Max murmurs, hips picking up a slow roll again.

“I couldn’t! You- you- I missed you,” Lewis breathes. He’s panting, and it’s the most gorgeous, desperate noise Max has ever heard in his life.

“Hmm, I had things to do, love.”

“I know! But- but- ah- sometimes I just wish we had more time. So I- so I can have you all for me,” Lewis groans.

Max bites his lip, then moves to bury his head into the crook of Lewis' shoulder. He cannot face Lewis, not when he’s wishing for the things Max wants so desperately, too. It all hits too close to home, having Lewis wish for more time, for them to be together. It’s not something Max should want, or something Lewis should want -- they’re not allowed to do this, damnit! They’re not allowed to be together! And here they are, the two biggest rivals on track and most passionate lovers off-track, fucking each other and hoping for a better tomorrow, for more time in the future, for space. Max closes his eyes briefly, wondering why the hell he let himself fall in love with this enigmatic man in the most important season of his own career.

Lewis is just too perfect.

Max gives in, heaving his hips off of Lewis almost entirely, and then slamming down, earning a very, very loud moan from his counterpart, accompanied by his name repeated like a mantra; “Max- Max- oh- Max- I- Max, please!”

Max fucks Lewis senseless, a fast pace that burns his upper thighs. He can’t wait to suffer the consequences tomorrow.

Lewis, like the biter he is, finds the soft skin right below Max’s breast and clenches his teeth on it, leaving angry red and purple marks in Max’s skin. Max curls his fingers into Lewis' hair in return, as leverage, while he fucks and fucks Lewis harsher every second.

Lewis' knuckles are bright white, and the marks the cuffs leave on his wrists are definitely going to leave bruises. He groans out one last, “Max!” so loudly, it must echo over the entire paddock. And then he comes, deep inside Max, filling him with warmth in his chest, tummy, and curling all around his senses. Max lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and Lewis' mouth on Max’s skin turns to a soft kiss.

Max chuckles as Lewis' mouth tickles his skin. Lewis giggles against Max, and soon they find themselves giggling to each other. The entirety of it is super absurd, Max has come leaking down his thighs when he moves in Lewis' lap, and Lewis is still inside him, though softening. Lewis' hands are above his head, tied to the headboard with metal handcuffs and they’re laughing like goddamn idiots.

Max’s got a blush on his cheeks as he leans in to kiss Lewis' jawline. “God,” He says, still catching his breath from the laughing fit, “I’m gonna have to gag you next time, the entire paddock can hear you.” Though it doesn’t sound as heated as he might’ve wanted it.

Lewis' giggles die softly, and he says, “Good. I want them to know.”

“You want everyone to know who you’re fucking? Who’s making you feel so good you’re losing the championship over it?”

Lewis only smirks, “Worth it.”

Max’s heart stops.

Lewis says that Max’s worth more to him than the championship? Is he for real? No way, that’s- no, that can’t be! No! Huh? He must be joking, right? Right.

Right?

“Now get these things off me,” Lewis grunts, moving the cuffs around. The metal-against-metal sound is suddenly loud in their room.

“A whole-ass lesson on not being needy or impatient, and he’s still needy and impatient.” Max sighs.

“For you, always.” Lewis responds, smugly.

“Slut.”

“Yours.”

“Fuck, Lewis.” Max moves to trace a line over Lewis' skin around the cuffs. The cuffs really dug into his skin, and Max thinks that it might’ve hurt. Maybe they should’ve gotten those fluffy ones instead, but then again, this was Lewis' decision. Max breathes, “Mine indeed.”

After a few minutes of gathering their breath, Max grabs the key from his nightstand and frees Lewis. They take their time cleaning up and dressing in a comfortable silence. Max sits down on his bed, following Lewis' movements with his eyes.

“Next week’s England, so you’re staying over.” It’s a question, but it isn’t phrased like one. Max knew this would come, Lewis had mentioned it before. Ever since Lewis stayed over at Max’s house in Monaco, he’s wanted Max to stay over at his in England.

“Yeah, babe. Yeah, I will.” Max responds, praying to whatever is out there that might listen to him that they'll have this bit of more time, of freedom, of space.

“The entire weekend? Thursday to Sunday?” Lewis asks, and his entire demeanor seems rather calm, for a proposal like this. As if he’s merely confirming so he can make note of how many groceries to buy, rather than asking Max to cross his contractual obligations and spend several nights with his rival-slash-lover instead.

He takes a deep breath, that isn’t allowed, that isn’t allowed, that isn’t all- “We’ll see,” He says, non-committal.

“Good.” Lewis smiles, looking at his feet. Then he looks at Max again, head cocking to the side, “What’s the thing again? Auf Wiederzeen, meine Liebe?”

Max smiles, blushing. “Auf wiedersehen, meine Liebe.”

Lewis leans in, hand on Max’s cheek as he kisses Max with the same urgent, breathless, and passionate way as Max had done before they started this scene, “You’re so hot when you talk in foreign languages.”

“Hmm, same to you, just a little work on your pronunciation and-”

Lewis kisses Max to shut him up. It works.

He gets up to walk out of the bedroom, grabbing a sweater of Max’s that lay in his closet. He folds it and holds it to his chest, winking, “Mine, now.”

It takes Max a second to realise that Lewis had used that sweater to jerk himself off on, when Max had first found him in his house.

Max chokes out, “All yours.”

And then he hears the front door fall shut.

Max feels special.

silverstone, united kingdom; july 18, 2021

There’s a hand under his elbow and one around his waist. There’s two people in bright orange clothes guiding him and helping him walk. Max can barely feel his legs, hands, or anything about his body, for that matter. He’s grateful these two people are helping him walk, because he worries he wouldn’t be able to stand if he were here alone. One of the orange guys climbs onto a silver floor, and stretches their hand out to guide Max to do the same. He lifts his leg, and surprisingly, it moves as told.

He doesn’t feel like he’s in control of his body. He feels as if someone else is pulling the strings, and he’s nothing but a marionette doll, created solely to listen and follow. He doesn’t really mind though, he’s glad someone else is thinking for him, and doing things, because he has absolutely no clue what is going on.

Max feels like he’s underwater -- all sounds are muffled and all movements around him happen slower than they normally would. His eyelids cover his eyes and then reveal the colors around him again, everything too bright, and he looks at his feet to get his brain sorted out. He’s wearing bright neon orange shoes, with white lines and his race number on them; his racing shoes. Was he racing? Was he preparing for a race? How did he end up here?

The silver rectangle he stepped in starts moving, and one of the orange guys is by his side, the hand on his shoulder weighing heavy, and it’s the only thing Max focuses on. The other orange guy sits in front of him, and Max can vaguely make out some of his facial features. He’s got a big white helmet on his head, and there’s a plastic thing on his face - Max reckons it’s a covid-thing. Shouldn’t he be wearing a face mask too, then? Max shakes the thought away; he knows people would’ve handed him a mask if he needed to wear one. He goes back to focusing on this man’s face: he’s got a nice beard, dark brown, trimmed; a silver piercing around his lip. It’s moving along with his lips as he talks, but Max can’t hear him, he’s too busy focusing on the silver ring.

Max blinks and looks up at the man’s eyes; they’re dark brown, crinkles of age around them. He sees the soft and concerned look in the man’s eyes, and he thinks the guy must be a sweetheart. Whatever he’s saying and how he’s moving probably has something to do with Max’s wellbeing, so Max smiles. He has no clue what words hang in the air right now, but he sees that the man means well, that the man cares, and Max thinks that that’s very kind of him.

The cube he’s in stops moving, and the kind man in the orange suit steps out, then reaches his arm out to Max. Max has decided that until he figures out what the fuck is happening, and why he’s in his racing outfit but not preparing for the race, he’ll trust this kind man.

Marshals wear orange suits, and they work for the FIA, this Max knows. They are the guys that wave funny flags to tell drivers what is up, and they are the ones to hop on track when there’s debris to clean it, so that all drivers can drive safe.

They’re the ones that guide drivers that crashed to the medical centre, if needed.

Max didn’t crash, did he? No, he’s pretty sure he’d remember that.

Unless it was a bad crash…

There’s a woman with a bright, neon pink hijab that burns on Max’s retinas. He squints his eyes as he focuses on her green eyes instead, but it’s tough. Everything around him that is just too bright has his head pounding loudly in his ears. Her mouth is moving, and she’s saying things that are probably relevant. Then she’s touching Max’s shoulder, his neck, his wrists -- it’s overwhelming.

Max cannot find it within himself to take a step back, since this woman is obviously doing something that’ll help him in the long run, and she is taking care of him. He takes the polite route and focuses on the weight of her hands as she straps a velcro piece around his elbow, her touch soft and patient. She notes down the information she gathers from a little device in her hands, and Max briefly wonders what she can figure out based on those facts alone.

Would she know he’s confused? Stressed?

Would she know that some of his bruises are from Lewis' mouth?

Would she know he and Lewis slept together?

Would she know he’s in love with Lewis?

Max blinks a few times, trying to get the memory of Lewis' hands on him, Lewis' mouth on him and Lewis' dick inside him away as he dutifully follows all the things the people around him ask him to do. They’re making notes left and right, as they press various instruments to his body.

He slowly starts to regain his hearing, and he’s able to form responses to the questions the people ask.

He learns he’s been in a crash, a bad one, and suffered an impact as strong as 51G. He has many bruises all over his body because of it. The dizziness clears up as he gets moved around from person to person. The headache fades too, little by little, and he finds no issue looking at the woman’s bright hijab anymore. He even starts to notice the thin, gold leaf patterns on them, but he can’t look at them for too long, before he’s passed on to someone else’s hands, in another room.

“You feeling okay?” His dad asks, and Max wonders where the hell he came from. They’re walking out of the medical center, and the grip his dad has on Max’s elbow is strong enough to let him know he has no choice but to follow.

“Managing. Where are we going?”

“Hospital, they need to run a CT scan for you.”

“What?” Max breathes. He doesn’t feel that bad that he’ll need a whole CT scan for it.

“Yeah, a CT-scan and an MRI, just to check there’s nothing wrong internally. I’ll be by your side the entire time, okay?”

Max takes a deep breath, “Okay.”

--

He lays in a hospital bed, awaiting the results from either scan. Max feels a little more grounded than he did before. His dad has resorted to showing Max videos from every angle of the crash. It pains Max to see that none other than Lewis -- not just his rival anymore, but also meticulously his lover -- has driven him off track.

Max had praised himself before that he and Lewis were able to keep work and pleasure separated so well. It never influenced the way they treated each other. Frankly, Max was very well able to draw a line between the driver Hamilton, and his lover Lewis. Two whole different people, sometimes, and that was nice. It was healthy for them. They could race, in possibly their most exciting and nerve-wracking season as of yet, and they could close that all off to love each other after a race. All the feeling and tension of losing to your rival, or winning against him, faded when they were together. They might be rivals in the sport, and in the media, but off-track they’re friends first and foremost.

A friend Max had begun falling for.

And now that friend drove him off track.

Look, Max’s a driver, he knows races can get intense and mistakes get made and things happen. That’s all understandable. He can forgive Lewis for the crash on its own, despite how much anger and hatred his dad is trying to inflict on him.

Max asks, “Did he get a penalty?” after reviewing the crash from all the footage available.

“Ten seconds for driving someone off track so they can’t continue racing. It’s also the first lap, so the stewards are more tolerant.” His dad hisses, “But he deserved something tougher, like a disqualification!” He waves his arms angrily.

On one hand, Max thinks it’s nice of him, nice to protect his son like this, and wish him the best and most fair chance at the championship.

But it’s still Max’s lover, Max’s crush, that he’s talking about. His words of rage sting Max, and he feels the need to defend Lewis more and more with every next sentence that leaves his dad’s mouth.

“Come on, you don’t drive like that in Copse Corner! You hit the apex, and then you take the inside line, or you take the outside line,” Jos says. Max nods along. His dad is a former Formula One driver, so he knows part of what it’s like to race, and to race on Silverstone specifically. He knows what it’s like to battle on Silverstone.

What he doesn’t know is how to race on Silverstone against the biggest rival you ever had, the only one possibly standing between you and the world driver’s championship, who you also happened to have slept with one way or another for at least nine times and who you are catching feelings for.

Max’s never wanted to tell someone about his struggle so badly, but his dad is shaped like exactly the wrong person to know of this, let alone to have an opinion or have an influence on it all.

No, this entire situation is Max’s decision, it’s something Max has control over, and it’s something Max will have to deal with the consequences of.

His dad would never understand.

Max focuses on keeping his face neutral, if not agreeing, as his dad rambles about the terrible, terrible sir Lewis Carl Davidson Hamilton. Max bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying anything, from disrupting his father’s train of thought, from spoiling his love life and the secrets he’s been keeping.

He means well, Max knows this. He has to keep reminding himself that his dad means well, despite the hateful words that roll off of his tongue, the ones Max drowns out.

Every word his dad says about Lewis just makes Max want to defend Lewis harder and harder, but that’ll only make this situation even messier than it is.

Max hasn’t even spoken to Lewis about this all.

He doesn’t know what went on in Lewis' head as Lewis ticked him off track and straight into the hospital, and how Lewis' currently driving on like nothing’s happened at all.

Max shushes his dad, opening up the laptop screen and looking at the last few laps of the race.

Lewis is driving first.

Max watches silently while his dad complains about the impossibility of Hamilton sending his own son into the hospital and also winning this race. Max doesn’t even hear it anymore, all he sees is how Lewis drives the victory home, hops around happily on the fields and talks with a big smile to interviewers. He waves the British flag around like that’s a trophy on its own. He jumps on the podium, dances around with a big smile, collects the trophy and hugs it tightly… He just seems so happy.

This hits Max on a way more personal level than he might want to admit. To see Lewis going around and celebrating his win like he triumphed by getting Max out of the way, it just–

It–

It fucking burns inside Max.

It looks like Lewis doesn’t care about him, and Max distantly wonders if he truly means nothing to Lewis. If everything they’ve done together was just to pass time, to keep his mind off racing, to have someone to sleep with without the relationship aspect.

He wonders if he misread all his ERS-things.

If Lewis had an agenda all along.

--

The test results come back and thank god Max’s fine. There is no funky stuff happening internally, and his brain is intact as well. His body is bruised, but nothing that won’t heal with a little rest and care.

It’s around ten in the evening when Max, his dad, and a nurse go to Max’s hotel room. The nurse places a handful of painkillers as well as several glasses of water on Max’s bedside table. He guides Max onto the bed, propping up a pillow behind his back. Max takes a deep breath, and suddenly feels just how exhausted he is. The nurse smiles at him sympathetically while going through the schedule of checkups and the appointment he has with his doctor in Monaco.

The man pats his shoulder, telling him, “You’ll be fine,” and somehow it’s about more than just the crash.

The nurse leaves, and Max can only count down the moments until his dad leaves too, and he’ll be alone, and he can sleep.

God, he wants to sleep for the rest of his life, or like, at least 50 hours or something.

“Hey, Max?”

“Hmm?” Max responds to his dad sleepily. He tries to drop as many hints as possible to send him away. He’s had enough hours of dealing with his dad’s rambling, his dad’s complaining, his dad’s- ugh, just his dad in general.

“Where’s your suitcase?”

“My-”

Well, fuck.

Max’s suitcase, with most of his belongings… Well, that thing is currently at the apartment of one Lewis Hamilton.

Max’s heartbeat picks up as his memories wash over him. He left his suitcase with Lewis because that’s where Max headed the moment he landed in England. That’s where Max stayed the entire weekend.

Max had spent every moment he had with Lewis.

It started Thursday, when they landed. After press conferences and debriefs, they got a very late lunch together and then spent the rest of the time cuddling lazily on the couch, before moving it to Lewis' bedroom to fall asleep there.

Then, on Friday, Max headed to Lewis' without asking, coming back from the grid, and Lewis had left the door unlocked to let Max know he was expecting him. They spent the time after Free Practice with slow sex on the couch in the living room, the empty take-out containers Max had brought standing long forgotten on the coffee table beside them, as Max drowned in the sound of Lewis' moans.

Somehow they ended up in bed together, and woke up next to each other, ready for the first Sprint Race in the history of Formula One. It was a weird day since neither man was used to the rituals and rules of the sprint race. But it was fun! Something new to bring to the sport, and hopefully, it entertained the fans.

It certainly entertained Lewis to see Max in a wreath, after he had won the little preview of the big race on Sunday.

Max fucked Lewis against the window of his apartment as punishment for the bullying. Seemed fair.

In the hours before the race, Lewis woke Max up by giving him a morning blowjob. Then they headed, in their respective cars, to the paddock to race.

Or, in Max’s case, to get tipped off track and sent to the hospital.

Max grunts at the realization -- he’s here, alone, in a hotel room he hadn’t been in yet, without his suitcase and belongings…

But most importantly; without Lewis.

“Max, where’s your suitcase? Did it get stolen?”

Mark reemerges from the living room to stand at the foot of Max’s bed. It’s like every fiber in Max’s body is just screaming a very loud ‘no! Get out!’. Every thought that crosses his mind is mean, a snarky comment, something impatient. Something to get his dad out as quickly as possible, but also comments that would get his dad angry, to raise questions.

Max shakes his head, “Maybe left it at the paddock, I didn’t have a smaller bag with me.” He takes a deep breath, sinking lower in his bed, “Dad, I'm feeling dizzy again, and very tired. I want to catch some sleep before the flight tomorrow.”

“I’ll head into the paddock first thing in the morning to search for your suitcase.”

“Dad,” Max sighs, “I can handle that, I'm an adult.”

“Of course you are, an adult that lost his suitcase.”

Max hisses, “And one that crashed at three hundred kilometers an hour and hit a wall with a 51G force, okay? Thanks for everything today, dad, but I really want to sleep now.”

Jos takes a deep breath. His gaze at Max is everything but sympathetic, though his words are kind, “Rest up, give me a call when you’re in Monaco. Keep me posted about the doctor’s views on this.”

“Promise.”

“Love you, Max.”

“Love you, too.”

The door falls shut, and Max immediately fishes out his phone.

He opens the chat with Lewis, and tries not to stare too longingly at the heart emojis, the lovely messages, and the good luck wishes. Instead, he focuses on what he's contacting Lewis for.

Can you send my suitcase over? [Max]

He keeps it cold, businesslike. He has no time for guessing what type of mess they’re in right now. He has no energy to figure out how to untangle the knots of their relationship.

He wants Lewis to bring him his suitcase, so he can catch his flight to Monaco and figure out his life and everything there, in his safe space, his own house.

[Lewis]: I'll swing by!

Of course he’d send that. Max rolls his eyes. He had hoped to not get in an argument about this, hoped that Lewis could just roll with it, get someone to send Max his suitcase and that’ll be that.

But no, Lewis wants to swing by.

Max takes a deep breath. He’s not ready to face Lewis, not after all the celebrating he’s done whilst Max was in the fucking hospital. Lewis looked so happy, so serene. Like he finally overcame a big obstacle in his career: Max.

the suitcase alone is fine, thank you. [Max]

[Lewis]: no, it’s no big, i’ll bring it to you.

don’t come up then. [Max]

The three dots appear and disappear again, taking a few minutes before Max receives a message. Max watches as the pixels dance on his screen, mocking him. The reflection of his messy hair is painful, so he hopes Lewis finishes his essay soon, so he can put the darn thing away.

[Lewis]: Max please, we have to talk

Yes, Max’s heart sings. He wants nothing more than to let Lewis up to his room, have him climb into Max’s lap so they can kiss until morning comes. To scream from the bottom of his heart and the top of his lungs that he’s absolutely smitten and head over heels for Lewis. He wants to tell Lewis again and again how much he loves him. He wants to call him cute nicknames and tell him how much he loves him, and he wants to love him and he wants Lewis to love him too.

He’s barely been without Lewis today, but he already feels like he’s going insane. His heart is screaming to his head, and his head is screaming back just as loudly. They disagree with each other on things. His heart wants Lewis, his head says career.

Max listens to his head as he types.

no, actually. We don’t have to talk. I need to have my suitcase, that’s what matters. [Max]

Max wishes Lewis could see his face, could sense his anger. And he wishes that for once in his goddamn life, Lewis would drop an argument, let himself be won over, let it go.

[Lewis]: Well, i’m bringing it and i’m coming up, whether you want it or not.

Max takes a deep breath. There’s no arguing with Lewis anymore. His shoulders fall, and he feels on the verge of crying from sheer helplessness. He wants nothing more than to just have his suitcase here and not think about Lewis, their relationship, his career, or his wounds. He wants to get some mother fucking rest.

please don’t make this harder than it already is [Max]

The last message doesn’t arrive, indicating that Lewis has already left, that he’s already on his way to Max’s hotel. Max grits his teeth, regretting that he told Lewis the details of where Red Bull had booked his hotel room when he was at Lewis'.

Max looks around his hotel room, just to direct his thoughts at something else, to distract himself. There’s no stopping Lewis, but thinking all of these doom scenarios that come up in his mind is just gonna make him feel shittier and shittier. It’s a pretty room, truly. The walls are matte black that bleed over onto the black marble floor, of which the gold strokes stand out beautifully. There’s long and big windows on one side of the room, letting in enough natural light to not let the blackness overwhelm. The nurse had closed the curtains that were closest to Max’s bed, but left the thin white curtains hanging over the last few. It gives the room a bit of natural light, even though there’s not much light outside anymore. It’s mostly the yellow hue from streetlights, and a faint neon blue mixed with it, probably from a store across the road.

There’s no division between the bedroom and the living room, or the kitchenette, only a small horizontal closet filled with books no one has ever touched before. The bed Max lies in is big, bigger than his at home, and round. The sheets are soft to the touch, and the black color makes it look like icing atop the marble floor.

There are plants all around the room, contrasting with the hard industrial lines of the couch and the coffee table. They spread the illusion of nature, as if the plants are free to grow however they want, as if they’re the only thing in this room not controlled by human hands.

If things were different, Max could see himself feeling comfortable in this room. He’s been in worse -- both quality-wise and design-wise.

A knock on the door, and Max’s head shoots up at the sound. Max winces at a sharp jab of pain, forgetting in his panic that his head is still a little weak from the crash. His heartbeat races, worrying there’s a nurse coming in for a check-up while Lewis is on his way here.

“Max?” Lewis' voice says, tentative, slightly shaky, insecure.

Max takes a deep breath, bracing himself for all the weird things his body might do when he sees Lewis. He hopes he can get his body to calm the fuck down, get Lewis to drop the suitcase, and then leave. His fists clench the sheets tightly.

“Hey,” Lewis says after he walks into the room. He drops the suitcase by the door, then walks over to Max.

Max looks pointedly at a wall in front of him, at the vase of a plant in which the blue neon light reflects. From this distance, he can never guess what the neon sign says, but he tries to keep himself busy. “Thanks for my suitcase,” He states.

Lewis is stubborn, and Max really hates him at this moment. Any other day and he’d think Lewis standing his ground would be cute, but right now, it’s the most annoying thing ever.

Lewis walks over to Max, not defeated by Max’s lack of eye contact or interaction in general, and he sits down on the bed.

“How are you-”

“Please leave.”

“Max,” Lewis' voice is unsteady, worse than when he wanted to enter. As if he’s on the verge of crying. Where does he think he has the right? He didn’t get sent into the hospital after a crash. No! He was the one that won the race and celebrated like his greatest victory ever.

Despite all the anger and frustration and sheer impotence Max feels, he can’t help but want to look at Lewis, want to grab him and hold him close. Max doesn’t trust himself, knowing that even looking at Lewis will result in Max touching Lewis and if there’s one thing his brain is telling him to avoid doing, it’s touching Lewis.

He should hate him, and here he sits hopelessly wanting to touch Lewis, smell his skin, his cologne, kiss his neck, his lips… He wants nothing more than to lose himself in Lewis everywhere.

Lewis should really leave before Max does something inherently stupid like reach out and actually kiss him.

“Lewis, please, I am not in the mood for you. Get out.”

Lewis crosses his arms, “No. Look at me.”

“No.”

“Then talk to me.”

Max shakes his head and takes a deep breath, eyes never leaving the vase on the other side of the room. “If the exact same situation happened again, tell me, would you do anything differently?”

Max can see how Lewis rolls his shoulders in his peripheral vision, and he does his best to not look at him any more than that.

Lewis remains silent.

Max realizes that he wants nothing more than for Lewis to apologize about what happened, to tell him he’s sorry, to tell him he made a mistake.

Max looks at his own hands in his lap, tracing a line inside his palm with his finger. Lewis still says nothing.

Max breathes, “Knew it.”

“No, I wouldn’t do anything different,” Lewis comments, voice riled up and steady again, “Because I took that turn how I always would-”

“You should’ve caught the apex!” Max responds, voice rising higher. He can tell that the frustration is seeping in his veins, anger hitting a peak Max would’ve rather avoided. But it’s too late now. He looks at Lewis angrily, and sees the pain and frustration, but most of all the pride in Lewis' eyes. His hair is messy, his shirt hangs loosely over his body, but his eyes are shining, and Max’s too afraid to guess what type of shine it is.

“Don’t tell me how to race!” Lewis says, voice authoritative like he speaks as a seven-time world champion, and not as Max’s lover, not as someone who cares about Max, or someone who wishes things were different.

Max takes a breath. This has gone too far, they’re not getting anywhere if they keep debating these details. “Lewis, leave.”

Lewis hisses, “No.”

“I literally can call security on you,” Max says, only now realizing he’s been able to do that all this time. This realization is followed by the thought that he’d probably have to explain what the fuck Lewis Hamilton is doing in his hotel room at half an hour to midnight.

“You haven’t yet, though,” Lewis says, voice back to the small, shaky tone he had when he entered. Max has gone back to looking at the vase in front of him. The lights around it have gotten dimmer, so the neon blue shines even brighter. In his peripheral vision, he sees Lewis' hands fidgeting with the straps of his jogging pants, running them around his nails and on his fingers. It’s distracting, and Max wants to put his hands on Lewis' to stop him from moving.

But touching is dangerous, addictive, and will only get him in more trouble.

“Max, I-”

“What?” Max grunts, looking at Lewis again, for real this time. He’s got no time for a pathetic excuse. He feels a fire inside of him, stronger than lust, fiercer than determination.

“You’re sorry, but you would do it exactly the same way again. You wish things were different, and yet you’ve done nothing but celebrate this win. You had hoped I hadn’t been injured like this, and yet you made no move to even contact me until I asked for my suitcase.” Max feels how his jaw is clenched. Lewis looks at him in shock, but Max wants nothing of it. His voice is lower when he asks, “Just what am I to you, Lewis? A sex doll? Something to use? God- just-” He looks up at the ceiling and chuckles hollowly, “Never mind, I'm not in the mood for a fight, I’m too goddamn exhausted and now I’m getting a headache. Just leave.”

Lewis is silent for a painful amount of minutes, but he doesn’t move either.

Max should’ve known Lewis wasn’t one to give up easily. He’s never been, not on track, not off track regarding his activism, and not in discussions like these. Max looks at the vase again, as if it’s some sort of hypnotizing object that helps him get his thoughts in place. He’s heard before that blue is a calming color, and he thinks that whoever said that was right.

“You mean much more to me than that and you know it,” Lewis says. His voice is soft, but the words leave his mouth evenly. He takes a breath, “I celebrated because I didn’t know you were in the hospital. I saw you out of your car, my team told me you were okay, and then I went back to racing. You would have too, once you’d seen me presumably okay. No one told me you were in the fucking hospital until way after the race. And even then I didn’t know how to respond, I just blanked. For some reason, in my head you hadn’t crashed at all. You’d just be in your trailer after the race, waiting for me, and we’d spend the rest of the day cuddled up on the couch whilst watching a dumb comedy show or something.”

Max’s heart starts beating faster at the thought.

Lewis calmly continues, “I didn’t contact you because you posted about my behavior being unsportsmanlike. We’ve been in each other’s pockets so much, we’ve spent so much time together… I was worried it might’ve been too much, that I might’ve been too much, and that you might’ve needed some space. I had been selfish, indulging in all you bring me and constantly assuming you were up for- well- for my presence near you off-track. I know you didn’t want me here initially, but- but we gotta talk about stuff, man.”

Lewis takes a breath, running his hands through his hair before he places a hand on Max’s lower arm. Max meets his eyes, unable to resist anything Lewis gives him. He admires just how easily Lewis can say all the things in his head, can translate his feelings and thoughts into something comprehensible, and then manage to share that too. If Max had only one percent of Lewis' ability to articulate what he was thinking and feeling, they wouldn’t have been in a mess like this. Lewis says, “We need to… to talk. Get on the same wavelength, know what we’re doing.”

“...Set some boundaries,” Max adds, thinking back to all the times he so meant to do that. Ever since Algrave, the third time they were together, he has felt this weight on his shoulders, the need to take responsibility for whatever is happening and sort it out. But he didn’t, because he got lost in Lewis' skin, in wanting Lewis, in needing Lewis. Lost in hoping Lewis wanted something more than just friends with benefits too, and in worrying he might not, and that it would put an end to it all.

“Set some boundaries, for example,” Lewis agrees. His hand is still heavy on Max’s skin, and Max makes no move to get it away. It keeps him grounded, despite clouding his head with thoughts about wanting to kiss him, needing more of his touch. For some reason, it also helps him focus on what’s happening between them.

Max always feels a little like a helium balloon, kept on the ground by the people that need his attention, but otherwise freely floating around and away from everything and everyone. Lewis is like the heavy stone that someone ties around the base of the balloon’s string, so that Max can’t float away. It’s like Lewis was made for Max.

“I think we should,” Max says, then smiles a very small smile, gone faster than Lewis can blink, “But not now, I’m too tired and I could really go for some sleep.”

“Yeah, think about it at home. I’ll do that too.” Lewis smiles shyly. “Next time we see each other, no sex, just talk.”

“No sex, just talk,” Max nods. He looks at Lewis again, now with softer eyes than he had the entire night. He wants to reach out and cup Lewis' cheek, wondering what in the hell he did to deserve Lewis.

It dawns on him that Lewis is putting real effort into this relationship. He’s fighting for it. He hadn’t expected Lewis to be like this. Sure, once Lewis sinks his teeth into something, he doesn’t let go easily -- and he has surely bitten Max before. He goes all-in or he doesn’t do it, and he’s going all in on this relationship, or whatever is blossoming between them.

Max softly puts this in the ERS-pile again, bringing it back to life before it catches dust.

--

Max had forgotten all about the time, his full focus directed at Lewis and whatever fight-slash-heartfelt-conversation they had going on.

If anyone asked him, “Hey, when’s the nurse coming by for a check-up?” He’d be able to say, “Oh, around 12,” without blinking. But when there was an actual knock on the door, he felt more startled than ever.

His heartbeat races, faster than his car goes. The nurse is going to enter his room any second now, and Lewis is here. He’s not gonna push Lewis into a closet to hide him, but - but -

“Check up here!” A woman’s voice says, and Lewis' hand on Max’s arm tightens.

Max’s eyes are wide and he’s frozen in place while the woman walks in, seemingly uncaring about Lewis' presence -- not even the smallest frown or hint of surprise on her face.

She’s holding a small, white plastic briefcase. Her long, dark brown cornrows are up in a high ponytail, and several pieces of gold reflect from her nose and eyebrows. She’s completely calm when she says, “I’m just taking some samples and checking your heart rate. How are you feeling?”

Max stammers a response that somewhat translates to ‘I’m alright’. He’s very confused and worried over everything in this situation right now, hoping the woman won’t tattle on him, or draw any conclusions, or–

“Am... am I allowed to-to be here?” Lewis says, equally confused and worried as Max.

The nurse raises an uncaring eyebrow, her fingers not stopping from grabbing something out of the case. She looks at Max, and deadpans, “I don’t know. Max, is he allowed to be here?”

Max nods shakily, “Yeah– yeah.” He swallows audibly.

The nurse simply smiles, “I’ve seen so much stuff in my days, I don't care who does what with whom. That’s not what I get paid for, so it’s none of my business.” She winks at Max, “My lips are sealed, by the way. Client-patient confidentiality and all that.”

Max lets go of a breath he hasn’t realized he was holding. In sync with Lewis, he says, “Thank you.”

Max opens his hand by his side, looking at Lewis. Lewis' eyes widen for a second, as if Max’s holding a piece of pure gold in his palm, and then Lewis takes his hand.

Lewis mutters to the nurse, “I like your piercings.”

“Thank you!” She says, fidgeting with a golden ring around her lip. Then she freezes, “Don’t tell anyone I have these on, by the way. I’m- I–” She takes a breath, “Not really allowed to wear piercings on the job, but I came straight from a friend’s place, haven’t had time to take ‘em all off and–”

“No worries,” Max smiles. “My lips are sealed.”

“Mine too,” Lewis says, squeezing Max’s hand. Max squeezes back.

“You two are adorable, I wish you the best of luck.”

--

The entire time the nurse does her checkups, walking around, taking samples, and noting results, Lewis and Max hold hands. It feels safe, familiar, and balances out the entire mess they’re in.

They’re gonna be okay.

“That was that,” The nurse says. “Safe flight tomorrow, and get better soon, Max. Bye, Lewis.”

“Thank you,” Max says, and Lewis follows with, “Goodnight.”

The door shuts behind her, and Lewis lets the silence drag on for a moment longer, the two of them relishing in the hold they have on each other’s hand.

“I better get going too,” He says, smiling softly at Max, “You get your rest, m’kay? Talk later.”

Max nods, and while Lewis stands up, he doesn’t let go of Lewis' hand.

Lewis smiles at it, brightly, the sparkles in his eyes filled with adoration, and not the anger that came with new arguments. Lewis leans in and carefully places the softest kiss in the history of kisses on Max’s forehead. He whispers, “Let your body heal, okay? Take a little break, think about everything. I’ll see you in Hungary.”

Max nods, and lets go of Lewis' hand. They’re really gonna be okay, he concludes.

“See you in Hungary.”

mogyoród, hungary; august 1, 2021

No sex, they said.

The conversation from two weeks ago repeats itself in Max’s head over and over again. He’s mentally laid out all the pieces of his Evidence of Romantic Seriousness-pile and examined them closely.

His conclusion?

Lewis is willing to fight for… whatever this is.

Lewis wants Max.

“You mean more to me than that, and you know it,” He’d said.

Max takes a deep breath. If he’s honest with himself, he is actually way too exhausted to have such a heavy conversation after today’s race.

The race was a disaster, truly.

It was raining in Hungary. The Hungaroring track was wet, the intermediate-tyres were on the cars, everything was slippery and messy.

But Max started from the front row, so if he could survive getting through turn one, he’d be fine. He’d be able to focus on battling Lewis, on winning, and on going to Lewis' trailer and having their conversation.

He had wished for a normal race, even with the rain. Just race, have a good strategy, couple of battles, and then drive to the finish line. He figured he deserved as much after the British hell he went through.

No one heard his wish. Or, well, maybe some twisted genie did and said, “Oh cool, I’m gonna give you the exact opposite of what you want.”

In turn one, Lewis' teammate Bottas had oversteered, then lost control of his car, didn’t break in time, crashed into Lando, who got shoved into Max’s car and drove Max off track.

Max managed to drive on, thank god. But—

Well, with only half of his car.

Aerodynamics are a big part of a Formula One car, but due to the crash, Max lost nearly the entire left half of his car. His balance was fucked, his aerodynamics were ruined. His only consolation was that nothing internal was damaged — his engine worked, his gasoline pipes were safe, and most importantly, Max was unharmed.

Grumpy, yes. But unharmed.

There came a red flag and as Max hopped out of his car, his mechanics did everything they could with fucking duct tape to fix the ruined side of his car.

The track was green again, and the cars could drive. Max complained to his engineer that the balance sucked, that the car was nearly undrivable, but Max’s nothing if not determined. If he managed to finish anywhere in the top 10 he’d still gather points — and one point is more than zero. He was willing to fight for that.

So he did.

He drove the best he could, the safest he could, and managed to finish tenth.

One point more than zero.

It was exhausting, especially after a race like Silverstone.

So, really, Max wasn’t in the mood to have the most emotional conversation he’d had in years right after it, but he had made a promise.

He stomps his feet toward Lewis' trailer, determined and using the force of his steps as a way to shake himself awake. He runs a nervous hand through his hair as he stands before Lewis' door, telling himself that he’s got this, that it’ll all be okay once they’ve talked.

Max rarely feels nervous — he gets out on track and performs the best he can, so there’s no need to be nervous. Otherwise, he’d be nervous twenty-two weekends per year, which would be an excessive amount. In general, Max thinks nervosity is a waste of time, since worrying about situations will not help the outcome in your favour. Sure, there are things he can get nervous about, but it’s a rare occurrence.

Standing before Lewis' trailer when they’re planning to have one of the most important conversations in their fragile relationship is something that gives him knots in his stomach, that makes his skin itch, that has him biting his lip, and has his heart beating fast.

After one deep breath, he knocks on Lewis' door, and hears a faint, “Come in!” It sounds far away, like he’s in another room. Ridiculous, really, because the trailer is incredibly small, but still.

Max hops inside and closes the door behind him. Lewis isn’t in sight, so he calls for him, “Hey man, where are you hiding?”

“Here, here!” Lewis' voice sounds just as exhausted as Max’s.

Lewis had a pretty tough race, too. He was fighting on track with one of his former rivals for third place, having avoided the terrible incident at turn one but landing late in the rankings due to bad strategy choices. He managed to finish third place in the end, but the race took a toll on him. Lewis was panting on the podium, barely able to lift the trophy above his head as he normally does.

Max walks to where the voice comes from, deaf to the sound of shower water running, blind to the idea of walking into Lewis' bathroom.

“Hey, you,” Lewis says.

A very naked Lewis.

It’s a direct attack on every single fibre in Max’s body. Max has adapted this Pavlovian reaction of always wanting, nay, needing to touch Lewis' naked skin, dig his fingers into it, leave marks.

And it hits Max with every memory of them together. Whether it’s the moments Max fucked Lewis, or sucked him off, or Lewis fucking into Max, or sucking Max off, or— or—

Or Max waking up next to a sleepy Lewis. Their precious slumber disturbed by the sound of an alarm and the weight of responsibilities, the tension of a race, the pressure of winning. Lewis' soft eyes with his hair stuck to his forehead, Max’s hands trailing through the strands and leaning in to kiss Lewis' lips, to wake him up some more, to mutter, “We gotta get ready, it’s time for the English Grand Prix.” And Lewis muttered about feeling sore from how Max bruised his skin last night, only to clarify he doesn’t mind all that much anyway.

Max takes a deep breath and clenches his fists. They need to talk! God, doesn’t that sound familiar.

Lewis stands under the shower, the bathroom filled with warm steam from the hot water. Lewis runs a hand over his chest and Max can’t help but follow the movement. He bites his lip and closes his eyes. They shouldn’t get distracted! They need to talk about important things! And here Lewis is naked like the definition of a tease, begging wordlessly for Max to walk over to him and kiss him senseless, and fuck him senseless, so hard he’ll feel the bruises all the way through the summer break.

Right! Summer break! They can’t hold off this conversation now, or they won’t see each other for four whole weeks!

“Oh, please,” Lewis sighs, “Just once more, for old time’s sake? We can talk after?” Lewis stretches his hands high above his head, his body offering itself up to Max, a wordless plea for Max’s fingers and lips…

That sounds like a dream, Max thinks. He closes his eyes to get himself grounded. So he can be a bit of a helium balloon sometimes, Lewis isn’t the only one that makes him feel alive! He should be able to get control of his own body, of his own life. He bids the gravity of this metaphorical situation to keep him centered and opens his eyes again.

A mistake.

Lewis is patiently watching all the wheels in Max’s brain making their turns, all the wires dancing around each other until they find themselves in a knot, waiting until they untie themselves again before Max acts. Lewis leans against the wall of the shower, and through the glass wall, Max can see how Lewis' hand trails over his stomach, lower and lower to his dick.

He chuckles darkly, “Are you gonna keep standing there and watch how I get myself off? That’s okay, I’ve touched myself enough to thoughts of you. Getting to see you while I get off only gets me there faster, I bet.” His lust-filled eyes meet Max’s confused gaze, “Unless you want to give me, I don’t know, a hand?”

“Lewis—” Max cuts him off, shaking his head, “I’m exhausted—”

“Me too, it was a tough race. I needed some of that damp air—” Lewis uses his free hand to gesture to the damp from the hot shower, “—For my lungs, you know? Needed to cleanse them. Best way to do it is a nice, hot shower.” And all the while he talks, his right-hand moves up and down his dick in an agonizingly slow rhythm. He cannot get off like this, Max knows, but it keeps his mind on the prize, and it definitely keeps Max’s mind on something horny and desiring.

“I can see,” Max mutters, still fighting the urge to strip himself of his clothes and touch all of that gorgeous, dark skin on display.

“So,” Lewis cocks his head, “What are you waiting for? Come join me.”

Max shakes his head, “We— we shouldn’t, we need to talk, we—”

Lewis just raises an eyebrow as if to say, I have no issue doing that after shower sex.

“I— I’ve never, uhm.”

“Oh?” says Lewis, with a small, smug smile on his cheeks. He knows he’s won Max over, he knows Max will give in to the temptation that is Lewis Carl Davidson Hamilton. This battle was lost the very moment Max set foot in Lewis' trailer.

“I’d— I’d better go,” Max says, feeling hopelessly inexperienced and in a place he shouldn’t be. His feet burn on the trailer’s floor.

“You could do that,” Lewis smirks. He places both hands above his head just to show his entire god-shapen beautiful body to Max, and then his smile turns soft, “Or you could undress and I’ll guide you along.”

Max gulps audibly, and Lewis nods as if to say, go on…

Max waves an imaginary white flag, and his fingers find the hem of his Red Bull shirt. He wonders where Lewis' sudden confidence comes from, but then again, he knows Lewis can be nothing if not impulsive at times. Max admires his ability to just make a decision and stick to it, rolling with it and seeing where he’ll end up. Max’s more used to overthinking every situation before he finds himself there. He’ll think and think and think until he knows what’ll be the best path, and then he’ll do anything to get a situation in that direction. Controlled.

Maybe it’s okay to let himself be led by someone like Lewis, someone he trusts despite everything they went through.

Someone he loves.

Max’s fingers shake nervously as he undresses, fighting the urge to look at Lewis and see how Lewis is slowly jerking off while Max steps out of his clothes.

Max steps into the shower, hissing at the hot water on his skin, letting his hair get wet. He’s been sweating this entire time — the race was exhausting, but he hadn’t had time to shower after either. He just hopped out of his racing suit and into his regular Red Bull clothes and called it a day.

“Back against the wall,” Lewis commands, and, god, the dominant look is a very good look on him. Max sucks in a deep breath and takes a few steps back until his skin meets the cold wall.

Lewis steps closer to Max, grabbing his face with both hands and kissing him bruisingly hard. Max groans into the kiss, trying to angle his head better so the kiss can be softer, but Lewis is already inching his leg up to wrap around Max’s hips.

Max’s hand flies to Lewis' thigh, to support him, and Lewis uses this to wrap both of his legs around Max’s waist, pressing their bodies closer and closer to each other.

Lewis is taller than Max from this angle, and Max’s heart does a funny little twist at Lewis above him. He looks amazing like this, wet, naked, focused on Max and nothing but Max. And Max feels small, crushed under the weight of Lewis' gaze, and he wouldn’t want it any other way.

Lewis rolls his hips against Max’s, and Max would lie if he said it wasn’t hot, and he wasn’t getting hard. His dick has shown interest in this whole situation the moment his eyes caught a naked Lewis. Max’s hands find Lewis' ass, squeezing the muscle and hoping to leave bruises, to give Lewis a reminder of whatever it is they have now. Something he can’t ignore later when they’ll have The Conversation, when they figure out what they are, and what they want to be.

Lewis grunts against Max’s lips, followed by, “I’ve prepared.”

Max looks at him, eyebrow raised.

Lewis rolls his eyes, but his lips twitch and Max knows he means no harm, “I spread myself open for you, you idiot.”

The quip makes Max chuckle, and it brings some light to the situation that suddenly felt very heavy. He’s glad they’re still Lewis And Max, and not two… well, whatever they are. Max doesn’t know, and he fears he might never figure this out.

Then Lewis' words hit — he’s prepared himself for Max. He knew he would be able to push Max into this situation, he knew they’d end up here.

Spontaneous, Max thought. How stupid that was. Lewis is as much an overthinker as Max, but on a whole different level.

“How long have you been waiting?”

“Too long,” Lewis sighs, then looks at Max with darker eyes, determined. He says, “Fuck me, now.”

“Bossy,” Max chuckles.

“Yes.”

“Oh,” Max breathes.

Oh, indeed.

“Yeah,” Lewis says, and then he lowers himself. It takes a bit of guessing and working it out, but with Max’s help, he manages to position himself onto Max’s dick. Max’s not nearly lubed up enough — water really doesn’t work as lube-replacement — but Lewis doesn’t seem to mind. He moves his lips to Max’s neck and bites down onto the skin as he fills himself with Max’s dick. The roughness turns out to be exactly what he was chasing.

Once Lewis bottoms out on Max, he throws his head back. Max feels the skin of his neck burn from Lewis' teeth, but he relishes the idea of having a reminder that this situation — that truly feels like a dream to him — really happened.

“How-“ Max breathes, “How does this work- what, what are the logistics of this-“

“I can’t believe,” Lewis breathes, “That you’d use the word logistics during sex.”

“I’m very confused, Lewis.”

“Shut up, Max.” Lewis looks at Max, “I got this. Listen to me, m’kay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” And Lewis kisses Max once more, “Move to the other side of the shower, there, my back to the wall.”

Max nods and follows, pushing Lewis against the wall and feeling how it helps. It means Max doesn’t have to keep Lewis' body up with his own arms, but can use the wall as leverage while he slides in and out of him as if he’s a doll for him to use. A funny thought, considering the fact that Lewis is the one ordering Max around and Max follows easily.

“Fuck— Yes!” Lewis screams when Max slides in and out of Lewis. Max tentatively fucks Lewis, trying to find balance, to keep Lewis from slipping and fuck him properly at the same time. It takes a bit of practice, but in the end, he manages to find a rhythm, to make it work, and Max has to give it to Lewis - shower sex is pretty good. The water is warm, like a flexible set of sheets around their skin, the air is damp and it’s nice for his lungs, his skin slides against Lewis' easily… All in all, a pretty good idea from Ol' Hamilton.

Lewis bites Max’s neck and Max groans out loud. Lewis' hands grab Max’s hair and he tugs on it in a way that drives Max wild. It’s like he’s pressing all the right buttons to get Max to come, and Max is so fucking close.

“Max— oh, Max!” Lewis moans, uncaring for anyone that could pass by, “Splitting me open so—so good.”

Max grits his teeth and digs his fingers deeper and deeper into Lewis' waist.

“You gonna come for me, Lew? Untouched, just like that?”

“Haahh!” Lewis moans, head thrown back against the tiles, beads of sweat mingling with the water. Lewis looks absolutely perfect like this, and Max cannot imagine letting this go. They’re gonna find a way, he’s sure of it.

Lewis shakes Max out of his thoughts —before he gets too deep inside his head— by reaching out to touch himself, to get himself over the edge, but Max slaps his hand away. Lewis lets out a low groan.

With the tables turned, Max smirks, “You’re gonna come untouched, aren’t you? All you need is my dick and you’re coming. Go on, do it then, show me.”

Lewis' hands fly to Max’s shoulders, nails digging into his skin and leaving bright red marks. He scratches deep, and Max knows he’ll feel it when his shirt brushes against his skin. He’ll feel the scratches everywhere, and Max knows he won’t go into summer break without thinking of Lewis.

As if he needed the marks for it.

Max bites a nasty mark high on Lewis' neck where it will be visible, at least for the next few weeks. They don’t have any races soon anyway, and he will not go into his vacation knowing he’ll be forgotten.

“Ma—Max!” Lewis moans, coming in long spurts all over his chest. Lewis' hole clenches around Max’s dick and Max follows a few seconds later. He buries himself deep into Lewis and holds him tightly. He moves to place a kiss on Lewis' forehead, but Lewis dodges it.

Lewis heaves himself off of Max’s dick and uses the last bit of warm water to clean his chest. He turns his body to clean Max’s chest too, but it’s not as loving as when Max massaged Lewis back in Monaco. It’s distant, colder.

Despite the fact that Max was literally inside Lewis a hot second ago, he feels like Lewis is slipping through his fingers the way the water around them falls from their skin. Lewis turns off the shower and tosses Max a towel without a word.

Max opens his mouth three times to say something but he can’t find the words he’s looking for.

—

Once dressed, he moves to sit on the couch, but Lewis stops him, “I’ve got debrief in five, can we talk another time?”

“Lewis— I,” Max takes a deep breath and looks at Lewis. There’s a certain edge to whatever Lewis says and what he must think. Something doesn’t align. His eyes are too soft even though he wants to send Max away, and the hold he has on Max’s wrist is too gentle for the impersonal cleanup they just did. Something just isn’t right, Max feels it in his gut. “I can’t go into summer break without talking about this. We need to figure something out before I won’t see you for a month.”

“We will! Just— just not now…” Lewis scratches his neck, “I think I just need a bit more time to think about— about this.”

Max chuckles, “You could’ve said that before dragging me into the shower with you.”

“You wouldn’t have done this—” He points at the hickey below his ear, “—Had I told you, right?”

“That— yeah, alright,” Max admits. Frankly, had he known they would just have sex once again instead of talking about it all, he wouldn’t have visited. This uncertainty presses like a blade against his throat and he wants nothing more than to know what he’s signed up for, what they’re both in for, where the fuck they’re going.

“Try not to think of me during summer break, okay? I’ll speak with you in Spa, and that’s a promise.”

“Spa will be very busy, though.” Max counters. The chances of them having a lot of time to lay this all out and talk about it are incredibly small. Really, they should just find a time during their break to talk so that they can start the second half of the season with certainty.

“I know, but we’ll make it work.”

Max doubts this, but seeing how Lewis has debrief and he’ll be expected at certain places as well, he might as well take it.

As he leaves Lewis' motorhome, he scoffs.

No sex, they said.

stavelot, belgium; august 29, 2021

There’s something soothing about the rainfall. Something that makes Max feel safe, comforted, in touch with nature.

Summer break was kinder to Max than he had expected. He had truly dreaded it — being away from Lewis for all these weeks, not contacting him because of the state of their… ‘relationship’?, and not seeing him around.

It was less bad than he imagined. He had people around him that made it bearable, that dragged him into the sea and drowned out his thoughts with the sound of waves and the tastes of food. For four weeks he completely shut himself off from the world.

And that was nice.

Coming back to Belgium for the first race in the second half of the season is fun. The race track here is nostalgic, a tad dangerous, and always predictable in its unpredictability. You never know what’s gonna happen, and that’s what makes this track one of the most intriguing ones on the calendar. Belgium remains one of Max’s favorite places to be, it reminds him of his early karting days, of driving with his dad’s van to these places, plastic bags filled with peanut butter sandwiches in a backpack. Belgium always gives him some time to spend with family, even a brief visit does Max good. There’s something special about visiting your mom in her home, than letting her come over to yours. She just makes the best tomato soup, and Max is a very simple man who loves her tomato soup.

It’s Sunday — Max and Lewis have not spared more than a glance at each other all weekend, and Max’s fingers are shaking with the need to tell Lewis everything. He wants to lay out his views on this relationship before him, tell him every last edge of his feelings, and hope, by god does he hope, that Lewis reciprocates.

Qualifying yesterday had gone messy, Lando had crashed and it caused a red flag for the session. The rain was too heavy and the FIA decided to stop the third qualifying session early on. Max had set his time, along with a bunch of others, and for some, the times of the first two qualifying sessions counted. It made for a grid today, but even that didn’t go as planned.

The rain was too heavy, and the start got postponed and postponed. First with five minutes, then another five, then fifteen…

Suddenly they started, and then they raced for exactly two laps before it was decided that it was still too dangerous. Even with the wet tires, the ones with the deepest grooves, they couldn’t avoid aquaplaning, slipping on the insane amount of water that sprayed from the car before you. Max had no issue with that last part since he led the race with the pole position he got yesterday, but still, it was a mess for everyone.

So now they wait. Max has his racing suit low on his hips and has been given a Red Bull raincoat to keep himself warm. He walked around his car, talked to some of the mechanics, looked at the sky to try and conclude something about the rain, and ended up empty-handed. The rain seems to be persistent for another long stretch of time, and Max has kind of talked to everyone already.

Everyone but Lewis.

He walks to the garage, fishes his phone from one of the drawers, and opens his dead chat with Lewis. He takes a deep breath and figures it’s best to rip this overdue bandaid off quickly.

we still have to talk. [Max]

Max spares a glance at one of the TV screens in the garage, which broadcasts the same shots that people see at home. He catches a glimpse of Lando — who had fallen asleep beside his performance coach — before the camera pans over to Lewis and his performance coach heading to their garage. He walks out of view, and the camera pans over to the sky again.

[Lewis]: meet me on the other side of the paddock.

Max walks through the Red Bull garage, snatching his own umbrella before stepping out in the rain. He looks at the long lane of caravans and makeshift houses, and the offices that found their place in moving vehicles, to adapt to any paddock in any country they go to. There are handfuls of employees walking around the street on Max’s left-hand side, the different team shirts making a quick rainbow if Max squints his eyes. The bright orange of a McLaren shirt is in stark contrast with the deep forest green of an Aston Martin team member. He’s happy to see not a single dark blue Red Bull Racing polo wandering around, for he would be spotted and dragged away from his goal if it were the case.

To his right side, he sees the faint silhouette of a long black raincoat under a big black Mercedes umbrella. The silhouette is wearing black sneakers with a touch of mint green, in true Mercedes fashion. He huffs a laugh. Of course Lewis would change his racing shoes for his favourite sneakers the second he steps out of his racing car. Priorities.

He follows Lewis from a distance, walking over the paddock, sparing the occasional glance left and right to ensure he isn’t being followed. And if he is, he’ll have an excuse - uh, catching some fresh air, or something.

His earplug is still in his ear, and his race engineer gives him a monotone, “No updates on race start yet.”

Max thanks him, and follows Lewis around a tall building. He startles when Lewis steps in the middle of his path, an umbrella folded up beside him, a tentative smile on his face, “Hello, didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I—” Max looks around. The corner Lewis found is dark, calm. There’s no one who would walk here, and they even have a little bench-like place to sit on. “You didn’t scare me.” Max sits down, folding up his umbrella as well. He’s covered by a few trees on this far end of the paddock, and it makes calms his heartbeat. The soft rain makes the leaves move rhythmically. The conversation he’s about to have is scary, but the woods ease his mind. Just a little bit.

Lewis sits down beside him. Max feels how Lewis' looking at him, but he’s too transfixed on the gentle breeze that carries a leaf or two through the forest. The rain creates a beautiful atmosphere and Max can see himself living in a small cabin in the middle of the woods, enjoying the soft tipper-tapper of the rain on his roof and the crackle of the fireplace in his house.

He’d enjoy this fantasy a lot more with a sleepy Lewis cuddled up on the couch, so he takes a deep breath and tears his eyes away from the picturesque painting before him.

“Where do we go,” He looks at Lewis, “After this?”

“I don’t know,” Lewis says, honestly.

Me neither, Max thinks, but that’s not true. He’s not much of a dreamer, normally, but he does feel an ache of emptiness whenever Lewis isn’t near him. He doesn’t know what his future will look like, five, ten years from now, but he knows that right now it feels good to have Lewis by his side, and really, that’s all he asks for.

“What do you want?” Max asks, afraid Lewis may not want this with him. He’ll adapt. He’ll pretend. He’ll lie. He knows it’s fucked up, knows it sucks massively, but he’d rather be spending sleepy mornings with Lewis and without love, than without Lewis at all. He is too tired to try and find new love in the people he hasn’t met yet, or maybe in the people he’s met already. They randomly appear on his path, sometimes, and he knows that Lewis is one of those people. He doesn’t know much of the world, but he knows that he should keep Lewis close, whichever way Lewis wants to be close to him.

“I just—” Lewis takes a deep breath. It seems like there’s something pressing at his edges, like he’s close to bursting at the seams — like he’s on the verge of exploding but trying to hold it in. He exhales, rubs at his eye and looks at Max again. There’s a fierce determination in his eyes, but it goes hand-in-hand with vulnerability, fear, and something Max can’t place. Lewis chooses to explode, right in Max’s hand, for him and for no one else.

Maybe that something is trust, Max thinks, as Lewis turns his body to Max to say, “I’ve never felt happier than with you, this thing we had—have—uh, ugh.”

After a brief silence — one that Max uses to work this in, to let the words hang in the air and get used to the soft tremors in his ears — Max says, “So? What do you want with us?”

Lewis' voice is soft, “What do you want?”

Max raises an eyebrow, “I asked first.” His voice may be a tad more loving than he aimed for, but whatever.

Lewis snorts, “Okay, child.”

“Hey!” Max slaps Lewis' arm playfully, “I’m twenty-four!”

“Act like it!” Lewis shoots back, slapping Max on his leg in response. It feels familiar, the way they laugh and fall into a bit, the way they find each other and meet each other halfway, the ease with which this relationship could work, if only they work it out.

“Act like it yourself!” Max retorts. He’s not on top of his game, he knows, but hey. Can’t be overwhelmed with love and be funny.

“That makes no sense!” Lewis says, but he’s giggling, his eyes shining, his smile is wide, and he’s so goddamn pretty like this. Max sees the way some raindrops have found their way into Lewis' hair and dance on his skin as he shakes from laughter. He has to fight the painfully strong urge to cup Lewis' cheeks and kiss him with every ounce of love in his body.

Instead, he shakes his head. He asks, with a smile on his face, “What do you want from me, Lewis?”

Lewis' laughter comes down from its high. He looks at his hands in his lap and fidgets with his nails, a stark contrast to the free and cute look he had on him a second ago. Max knows he vowed to himself to never see an angry or sad Lewis ever again in his life, not on his watch, but he knows that this is part of the bandaid-ripping that they have to do in order to move forward.

“I think that if the situation had been different, that I could see myself…” He looks briefly at Max, scanning his face before looking at his hands in his lap again. He shrugs the smallest of shrugs, “Well, it all would’ve been easier.”

“Who says we can’t make it work like this?” Max tentatively reaches out to grab a hold of Lewis' hands, holding them in between his own. Lewis' skin is cold, colder than Max’s, and he hopes that he can warm Lewis up a little, like this.

“Max,” Lewis sighs, “When the crash at Silverstone happened, it showed-”

“That we just needed a little space to breathe. That happens with couples, doesn’t it?” Max is fighting for this relationship the same way he’s seen Lewis fight for it. If Lewis worries they can’t make it, but wants to, then Max’ll try his mother fucking best to make it work. He’s seen how it’s not supposed to work, being a child of divorce, but he’s learned from his parents. He knows how to be better. Communication isn’t his forte, but he hadn’t had seven weeks to prepare for this conversation to show up empty-handed, “You need your own time, and you have fights, and you work it out, and—”

Lewis wiggles his hands free from Max’s hold, yanks Max down by his collar, and kisses him.

The kiss is chaste, at first, as if Lewis feared Max would push him away. Max doesn’t move, and Lewis kisses him again (softer this time), and again (passionately), and again, (with tongue). He presses his body close to Max’s, kissing him fervently, shamelessly, lovingly.

Max moves back a little and breathes against Lewis' lips, “And you get out of it stronger.”

Lewis smiles against Max’s lips, one hand on the side of Max’s body as if he’s planning on crawling into his lap. Max gets a hand on Lewis' waist, holding him close, silently telling him he’s welcome to climb into Max’s lap if he wants to.

Lewis breathes, “Stop talking before I fall in love with you,” and kisses Max again.

Max smirks into the kiss, moves back only to say, “Who says that wasn’t the plan all along?”

He hopes it sounds cool, really he does. His heartbeat is racing a million miles an hour, faster than any race car he’s ever been in. This is the closest to an I love you that Lewis has ever told him, and Max hopes he can drown himself in more and more kisses.

Lewis moves back to look him in the eye. He looks shy, almost, in a way Max’s never seen Lewis Hamilton be shy. After a quick bite of his own lower lip, Lewis mutters, “Then whatever plan you might’ve had is working.”

He’s kind of saying he’s in love with Max, isn’t he? Max swallows thickly and can’t help his big smile from growing even bigger. His skin feels on fire and he must have a blush all the way from his back to his neck, the tips of his ears and the line of his cheekbones.

Max feels like there’s no better time than the present, so he mutters, “Good, good, same here.” Max’s hold on Lewis' waist strengthens as he pulls Lewis into his lap for real. Lewis laughs and kisses Max again and again as if he can’t get enough of him. Max feels the same and takes in every kiss with one of his own.

Lewis seems to relax a bit more, coming down from the high of freshly admitted love. He weighs a bit heavier in Max’s lap, close to slumping against him. His kisses are longer, he licks into Max’s mouth, he bites Max’s bottom lip, he wants Max.

Max’s hips buck up on their own accord. Lewis smirks as if his plan worked. He looks around and seems to realise just how little space he has. He sits up in Max’s lap, holds a finger before his mouth and Max zips his lips.

“Any updates?” Lewis asks his engineer through the radio in his ear. Despite them running off and doing what they want, they still have a responsibility to uphold. Technically, there is a race happening. Any time now, they can be called back and expected in their race cars. Max glances at the forest and sees how heavy rain is still falling down, and knows the chances of a restart ought to be unlikely, but it’s not like they can move the race to next week.

Lewis nods, “Thanks, man!” and turns back to Max. He grabs Max’s cheeks in his hold and kisses him once more. With a big smile on his face — one Max can’t help but automatically mirror — he says, “Come with me, into my room. My engineer says we still have time to kill since the rain’s not getting any lighter.”

“Excuse me — are you inviting me to your room in the Mercedes garage? Me, your biggest rival, Red Bull Racing’s driver, in the Mercedes garage?” Max chuckles.

“Ugh, whatever,” Lewis rolls his eyes and crawls off of Max’s lap, holding his hand out to Max, “I don’t care about any of that at this point.”

Max smiles a little privately. Somehow that means a lot to him, after everything they’ve discussed today already. He knows it’s super risky, he knows that if he gets caught he’s fucked for the rest of his life.

He also knows Lewis may be falling in love with him, Lewis wants this with him.

So maybe it’s okay to take a little risk sometimes.

He’s aware of how much his dark blue raincoat with the bright yellow and red hints stand out in the black/mint green aesthetic of the Mercedes garage. He’s aware his neon red shoes shouldn’t put step after step on these stairs up to Lewis' room. He’s aware of the weight of Lewis' hand in his, the determination with which Lewis stomps up the stairs and drags him into his little driver’s room.

Lewis' room is as big as Max’s in his own garage. Which means that it’s super tiny, smaller than their trailers. It has a bed, a compact desk against the wall, and a closet where approximately three shirts and one set of pants can fit in, besides the racing gear they have to wear each week.

Max doesn’t get all too much time to look at Lewis' room. Lewis pushes him on the tiny bed, back against the wall, and immediately crawls in his lap. He has thrown the door shut behind him and mutters some inaudible words against Max’s neck. Max’s distracted by everything — the feeling of Lewis in his lap, his lips against Max’s neck, his hands on Max’s waist. He knows they don’t have all the time in the world, but he’ll take whatever he can get.

Lewis gets his fingers on Max’s hips, fidgets around with the fabric, and gets his racing suit and his pants below his hips. He massages Max’s dick softly, holds it in his hands as if it’s a treasure to him. Max groans softly against Lewis' neck. He is momentarily overwhelmed with the feeling of Lewis in his lap again, knowing this love is requited, or slowly growing to equal the love Max has for Lewis. Everything is so much, Max feels so amazingly loved, he wants to drown in this moment. Put the world on pause and just enjoy Lewis as much as he can.

Lewis bites Max’s lower lip and it brings him back to the world. He places a soft kiss on Lewis' lips before getting his hands on Lewis' hips and moving his race suit down his hips and onto the ground. They’re gonna be so fucked if the race starts any second now, but they’re far too infatuated to care more than three seconds about that notion. This is a breakthrough in their relationship, and they’re treasuring each and every kiss, each and every touch, like it’s the start of a new beginning.

“You— you don’t wear underwear?” Max says, as he’s surprised to be met with Lewis' skin after peeling off two out of his expected three layers.

“No, never,” Lewis smirks, “Gets uncomfy.”

“Hmm, sure sure,” Max squeezes Lewis' hip, “Not because you’re expecting me after a race?”

“Am usually dressed up by then,” Lewis crawls off Max’s lap to step out of his suit, grab a tiny bottle of lube from a bag that lays on the ground, then crawls back into Max’s lap and hovers high above him. Max has to crane his neck to meet Lewis' dark gaze. It makes him feel small, this situation out of his control, and for once, he doesn’t mind. It’s Lewis, and he trusts Lewis.

He trusts Lewis with his heart, his body, his mind, his everything.

He loves Lewis.

Lewis squirts some of the lube on his hand, gets Max’s dick wet and giggles as Max places kiss after kiss to Lewis' jaw and neck. Max’s growing his beard out bit by bit, and he imagines the hair must tickle on Lewis' skin.

If there’s one sound Max loves more than Lewis' moans, it’s Lewis' joyful giggles.

Lewis uses his free hand to cup Max’s cheek and move him away from Lewis' neck. Lewis places a soft kiss on Max’s lips before muttering, “And yeah, maybe I don’t wear underwear for you.” He guides Max’s dick inside him right then, shamelessly sinks down and groans.

Max makes a punched-out noise, “You are a minx. You’re gonna be the death of—ah— of me like that.”

“Good!” Lewis huffs a breath and looks at Max once he’s bottomed out, “We can have a couple’s grave then, because you are killing me too.”

Max’s eyes widen briefly before he crashes his lips against Lewis', forces his tongue inside, and licks every bit of skin and teeth that he can find. His hands find Lewis' waist and he digs his fingers in.

“You prepared for me?” Max asks, incredulous.

“Yeah, I’ve been walking around with a plug all weekend.”

“Even when racing?” Max’s heart can’t handle this man, this minx.

Lewis chuckles, bright and adorable, tooth gap on display, “No, not in the car. But if you see me wiggle during the press conference…”

Max makes a punched out noise and Lewis waits patiently as all the gears shift and click in Max’s brain as he assesses the past weekend now with Lewis ready for him. It’s weird, because part of him thought Lewis was ready to call them off, to end things here. Maybe he’d have fucked himself on a dildo if Max went with him and broke things off. It’d be unsatisfying, Max bets. He can’t even touch himself without wishing Lewis was near, and now he knows that Lewis can’t do that either.

After a few seconds of nothingness, Lewis asks, “Ready?” to which Max nods.

Lewis mirrors his nod, then slowly rolls his hips, as if he has to get used to the feeling of Max inside him again. His mouth falls open after he fucks himself on Max’s dick, slow and long strides, not even trying to chase his high. He whispers, a little breathless, “God you’re perfect, Max. You— just— ugh, ruined sex for me forever.”

“Never sleep with anyone else then,” Max mutters a little possessively before he bites the inside of his cheek. They’re not… exclusive. Lewis is technically allowed to do however he pleases, no matter how much it may hurt Max.

“I wouldn’t dare to,” Lewis mutters, “No one’s touched me since Bahrain. No one—ah. No one but you.” Lewis wraps his arms around Max’s head and holds him close.

Max hugs Lewis' waist a little tighter too, kissing his neck and saying, “Same here, same here.”

Lewis' hands tangle into Max’s hair as he holds his skull. Max adores how Lewis looks right now — sweat beads forming on his forehead, eyes shining and full of love, blush high on his cheeks, lips swollen from Max’s kisses. There’s no Lewis that’s prettier than this Lewis in his arms right now. He is perfect.

How he wishes he had a photographic memory.

Lewis leans down to kiss Max again, and again, and again, whilst he slowly moves up and down Max’s cock, fucking himself however he pleases, riding Max on his own rhythm.

Max reaches blindly for the lube, squirting some in his hand all while kissing Lewis, and he finds Lewis' dick, stroking him in a way he knows makes Lewis' thigh shake. Lewis' leaking again, and Max resists the urge to scoop the pre-come from Lewis' dick and lick it from his fingers. It would mean that he’d have to stop kissing Lewis, and if there’s one thing he most certainly does not want to do, it’s stopping kissing Lewis.

Lewis hisses, clenching down on Max as some sort of revenge. His rhythm falters, he hitches a moan of Max’s name and Max jerks him off faster. “Show me,” Max says, “Show me what I want to see.”

“Ah—Max!” Lewis moans and he comes all over Max’s hand, all over their clothed chests. They’re going to have to find a way to clean this before they head back into the grid, but that’s the last thing Max cares about at this moment.

Lewis clenches around Max some more, and Max puts his feet firmly on the ground, his hands on Lewis' hips, and fucks him selfishly. He’s so fucking close— he just needs—

“Max, oh my god— you’re—!” Lewis bites down on Max’s neck, somewhere people might see if they were to stand too close to him, “God, I think— I think I’m in love with you!”

Max comes, breathless, open-mouthed. Lewis shakes in his hold and Max keeps him close. He’s panting suddenly, heart racing so fucking fast.

Lewis loves me.

“Max? Race restart in three minutes, where are you?” Gianpiero breaks the spell of his wonderful —Lewis loves me— afterglow.

Fuck.

His heartbeat is still racing, but now with the added stress of having to get out of here and into his RB16B as soon as humanly possible, all while thinking of an excuse as to where he’s been the entire time.

Lewis stiffens in his hold too, eyes wide when he moves back to look at Max. He seems to have received the same message. Lewis covers his mouth with his hand and Max starts laughing.

“Oh my god,” Lewis says, heaving himself off of Max’s softening dick and climbing off of Max’s lap. Some come leaks down his legs and he swirls his finger through it, mindlessly sucking it off of his finger afterward, as if he’s not driving Max insane with the picture he makes.

Max gulps, eyes fixated on Lewis' finger whilst Lewis searches for his underpants as if it’s the most normal thing ever.

“Hurry up, idiot, otherwise I’ll take the lead from you.” Lewis shakes Max out of his horny haze and Max hurries to put on his underwear, underpants, and his racing suit. He zips it up all the way to his neck, fully aware of Lewis' come sticking to the inside of it.

“You’ll need to overtake P2 first, buddy.” Max looks out of the window while folding up his raincoat, “But I doubt we can have a race without Safety Car in these conditions.”

“Ugh, Safety Car.”

“Yeah, sucks.” Max draws Lewis —now fully clothed in his race suit (though still without underwear, Max’s mind provides)— closer by his hips and kisses him once more.

Lewis smiles against his lips, “Good luck out there.”

“You mean good luck getting out of here?” Max chuckles, painfully aware he’s still in the Mercedes garage.

“That too. Catch you in Zandvoort?”

“Hmhm,” Max hums, “Tot dan.”

“I’m assuming that’s see you there?”

“Yeah, see you then.”

“Can you teach me some Dutch when we’re there?” Lewis whispers as they walk out of his driver's room and onto the paddock.

“They speak Dutch here too, Lewis,” Max deadpans, then winks. “Bring me some stroopwafels and we’ll see.”

“I guess I’ll figure out what that is when we’re there.”

“Tot dan, Lewis.”

“Tot dan, Max.”

—

“Ah, there you are, where’ve you been?” Christian grabs Max by his arm and pushes him forward to his car. He takes Max’s raincoat from him and hands him his helmet.

“Took a lil’ walk in the forest, I wasn’t far away!”

“Sure you weren’t.” He squints at him, and Max’s momentarily worried that one of the hickeys Lewis left still stains his skin in a light red shade. If Christian notices, he doesn’t say anything, “Race is probably going to be mandatory for results and not an actual race. Don’t do anything funny, you’ve got lead. Keep it.”

“Will do, boss.”

Max secures his helmet’s strap under his chin and crawls inside the RB16B on pole.

Whatever happens, happens. He’s got Lewis, who loves him just like Max loves Lewis. For once he couldn’t care less about a race, even if he has to follow the slow safety car for those two laps to finish and receive his first place result.

He holds Lewis close on the podium when they pose for pics, and just barely manages to fight the urge to kiss him.

There’s something soothing about the rainfall. Something that makes Max feel safe, comforted, in touch with nature.

In touch with himself.

zandvoort, netherlands; september 5, 2021

This is a good weekend.

“Good race, mate!”

“Lekker bezig, pik!”

“Congrats on the win, Max!”

Max smiles. He’s standing under the doorpost of his trailer, one arm leaning against it, fingers tapping mindlessly on the plastic frame. He thanks the little group standing before him. Some of them are mechanics, some journalists, some fans of a high enough status to get into the paddock and get close to him.

The first race in the Netherlands after a 36 year break had been splendidly boring. Max started on pole, drove calmly, followed his team’s calls for a pit stop, and passed the finish line. The podium ceremony had been nice, wonderful even. With the Dutch flag on his shoulders, he greeted the sea of orange in front of him. His lover was by his side, smiling brightly after hugging him tightly to congratulate Max on his win. Lewis had drenched Max in champagne, standing on his tiptoes to empty the bottle on his neck, the cold drink oozing into his suit and making it cling to his back. Max smiled and giggled happily, proudly, and everything just fell into place. It was perfect.

The people on the podium — Max, Lewis on his right side, Valtteri Bottas on his left side, and one of Max’s mechanics — huddled together for a picture. Max spared a brief glance at Lewis and contemplated leaning down to press a kiss to his crown.

He didn’t, but he wanted to.

Max looks at the group of people before him. He, for once, doesn’t really mind that they’re lingering when he’d rather be alone. They’re all happy for him, and it makes Max happy too.

The group was chit-chatting happily but suddenly fell silent. The circle opens up to reveal a small man in his black Mercedes suit, shifting from one foot to the other. The group clearly has mixed feelings about Max’s rival visiting him post-race, but Max himself is too busy holding back the big smile he feels growing on his cheeks.

“I’d like to congratulate Max, if-if I may?” Lewis stutters out, aware of his position.

Max has a small blush on his cheeks when he smiles, “Thanks all of you for swinging by. I’ll see some of you in debrief, and the rest, I’ll see you around in a bit, okay?”

With only a little bit of commotion, the group walks away, muttering about the situation but also too excited by Max’s drive to pay too much attention to this gesture from Max’s rival.

Max crosses his arms and playfully raises an eyebrow, “You’ve got balls, showing up like that, Hamilton.” Max distantly realises he hasn’t called Lewis by his surname in a long time. He says it with a smile, and not to distance them. “My people were still here and you’re just hoppin’ in.”

“Hmm,” Lewis smirks, swaying a bit closer to Max, leaning against his trailer. They’re so close to touching, so close for anyone to see. Max’s heart is beating in his throat. “Just wanted to say hi to the Dutch Grand Prix winner, I don’t see anything wrong with it.”

Max shakes his head fondly, sparing a glance at the group of people he just sent away to see if they are out of view. They’re heading out of sight, too busy paying attention to each other to see Max reach out to pull Lewis inside.

Lewis pushes him against the closed door immediately, kissing his cheek and his lips and his neck feverently, as if a second not kissing Max is a second missed. Lewis places a kiss on Max's lips and mutters, “I’m so proud of you.” He kisses Max’s nose, uses his hold on Max’s face to move him down so Lewis can kiss his forehead. He whispers, “so, so proud,” as if the message hasn’t come across yet.

Max blushes, unable to form a response and feeling helpless under the force of Lewis' love. He freezes, mentally, and just receives every kiss and tries to respond with one of his own, lets Lewis drag him to his bedroom, lets Lewis push him onto the bed, and lets Lewis crawl into his lap to kiss him more. Lewis holds Max’s collar close to him, no room for Max to move other than to open his mouth and let Lewis' tongue take charge and Max follows.

Wherever Lewis goes, Max follows. He may be leading the championship as of right now, but he isn’t a seven time world champion. He may end up winning this one, but it’ll be his first. Whereas if Lewis wins, it’ll be Lewis' eighth. Max may lead a lap, may win a race, but Lewis did it first. Max may kiss Lewis, but Lewis did it first — all the way back in Bahrain. Lewis had been leading everything, from the very start. And maybe that’s better, because Max gets too much into his head sometimes, gets stuck in his place. Lewis’ll drag him to wherever, and it gets Max to do things, to make changes, to be better than he was before.

With Lewis by his side.

Max moves Lewis back, just a bit — there’s one thing Lewis led in that Max feels is unbalanced right now, something he has yet to do and say, something important. Someplace Max hasn’t followed Lewis yet, but he must.

“I didn’t get to tell you last time, but I need you to know.”

Lewis frowns, “What’s wrong?”

Max takes a deep breath, trying not to hold it in for too long as Lewis deflates in his arms. Max says, eyes locked with Lewis' and every word articulated so there’s no room for any part to be misunderstood, misheard, or otherwise wrongly remembered:

“I think I’ve fallen in love with you too.”

As fast as Lewis came down from his excited haze to deflate, he immediately lights up — his face is bright, his eyes shine and he kisses Max again. Against his lips, Lewis mutters, “Get out of your clothes, I want to love all of you. Every last part.” His frantic neediness has gotten back into his fingertips, and Max can’t help but smile fondly as Lewis undresses him bit by bit.

Lewis' fingers emit a warmth onto Max’s body, tracing every line of his body, every curve, every outline, healing the invisible scars he’s gathered over the years with just Lewis' attention. Lewis' fingers make him feel whole; Lewis' lips make him feel loved.

He’s silent and focused as he gets Max naked, making every kiss and touch feel much more intense when Max’s got nothing to focus on but his own beating heart and the feeling of Lewis all around him. Lewis presses a kiss to his groin to get Max’s attention (as if he didn’t have it already) and heaves himself up to look into Max’s eyes, “I’ve been waiting so long to say that.”

“God, we could’ve avoided so much trouble, then,” Max laughs a bit awkwardly — insecure, maybe. “I think I’ve loved you ever since I met you.”

“Woah, and it took you rage and adrenaline to get into my pants?” Lewis leans up on his arms, “We could’ve fucked since, like, 2019... maybe? Would that be socially acceptable?” Lewis chuckles, hinting at the small age gap of thirteen years.

“Don’t care, but god—,” Max thrusts his hips up a bit, hard dick absolutely begging for Lewis' attention, “Better make up for lost time.”

“Yeah,” Lewis smirks, hand tracing a line over Max’s thigh and absolutely not where he needs it. He looks at Max with renewed want in his eyes and says, “I’m gonna eat you out now, okay?”

“Oh god—” Max rolls his head back. Lewis hasn’t touched him any differently. Max realises he’s waiting for consent of some sort, so he stutters, “Y-yeah, please.”

Lewis' smile is soft, almost private, before he moves down to kiss the inside of Max’s thigh, and then the rim of his hole. He takes his time, getting Max wetter and wetter before fucking into Max’s hole with his tongue. His hands are massaging Max’s thighs absentmindedly, and Max feels on fire everywhere.

Lewis treats him with such care, as if Max’s a piece of crystal about to break with too much pressure. The bruises from Max’s crash have faded entirely, but Lewis' attentive fingers suggest he’s still worried about hurting Max.

Lewis hasn’t even touched Max’s dick and yet Max feels like he’s bursting at the seams — his insides are clenching together, begging, aching for release.

“Aahh, Lewis,” Max moans, hands finding Lewis' braids and clinging to them like they’re his lifeline. Lewis hums against his skin, kisses his hole and moves away just enough to circle his fingers around it, pressing in softly.

“Think you could come from just my tongue and fingers?”

“At this —hooooly fuck— point, I think I can come from your words alone,” Max moans, heat low in his belly, toes curling so tightly his muscles strain.

“Hm, same,” Lewis mutters before bottoming out two of his fingers at once. He fucks Max exploratively, fingers searching around and about, and Max struggles to hold onto his sanity all the while. His mutters of Lewis' name is like a mantra, something he clings to as if it’s the only thing to keep him grounded. As if Lewis' name is enough to make him feel in touch with himself, with the world — floating away from it all, otherwise.

Undoubtedly, the name will get passerbys’ eyebrows in their hairlines, wondering what is going on in the house of the Dutch Grand Prix winner slash current championship leader. The man in question is too far gone to hope his windows are thick enough to keep the sounds inside.

Lewis surprises Max by pushing his fingers into him stronger than before, pushing down on his prostate and Max absolutely wails from the impact of one touch.

“Lewis!” His voice is getting hoarse from how loud he is — he is normally never this loud, but Lewis' love is curling all around his senses, warming him up from the inside and keeping his anxious thoughts hostage and hidden away. Max feels confident, secure in his body, proud of what he’s achieved and he doesn’t care one bit for any and all troubles they might need to go through if they get caught. The way Max feels right now — where his mind is screaming nothing but I love Lewis and he loves me, with some other clouded and frantic thoughts about how desperate he is to come — is better than he’s ever felt before and he’s willing to risk going through anything and everything with Lewis.

Lewis' other hand is trailing soft lines over the inside of Max’s thigh, outlining his muscles. The touch is a big contrast to the fingers inside him, and yet it’s so fucking perfect. Lewis knows what Max wants, what makes Max feel good. He knows Max’s body like the back of his hand and uses it to press all the wonderful buttons directly to Max’s nerve system. Max is overwhelmed, overstimulated and he hasn’t even come, he’s loved, over-loved, if that’s even possible. Everything is so much, but so fucking perfect. Not a single grand prix race win can beat the feeling of Lewis caressing him and simultaneously fucking him senseless, of Lewis' affectionate words and shining eyes, of Lewis' gorgeous body all over his. It’s in this moment Max knows, Max realises–

He’s willing to risk anything for Lewis.

“C’mon, Grand Prix winner,” Lewis groans, “Come for me, show me, show me.”

Max’s back arches, and he’s pretty sure he broke a nail by gripping the sheets so tightly. He mutters, “Lewis- Lewis—” more breathless than ever before, as if there’s nothing left for him to say but Lewis' name, as if he can’t say anything else than those five letters and the meaning they hold to Max’s heart.

“I love you, Max.”

Max comes so hard his vision turns white.

“Holy shit,” Lewis mutters, appreciative. The sound is blurred, like Max’s underwater when he hears it. It takes a grand effort to come down from his high, never having come this hard from just someone’s fingers and tongue but it’s Lewis and everything is different when it’s Lewis.

Vaguely, Max can tell Lewis is kissing his skin, maybe even licking him clean. Max’s hearing comes back to him bit by bit, slowly regaining the ability to experience things again and for his senses to work. Lewis is a very welcome warmth on his chest, tongue lapping away over his skin. It takes Max some time to realise Lewis is muttering things, humming a little song. He tries to focus on that alone — the sound of Lewis' voice filling the silence of the room.

I love you, I love you, I love you

Max blinks away a tear before it gets the terrible idea of taking shape in his eyes. What in the world did he do to deserve the majestic and wonderful feelings Lewis Hamilton brings him? He vows to himself that he’ll do everything he can to love Lewis as fiercely as Lewis loves him and hope — by god does he hope — that he can be as loud and strong as Lewis is, as open and as warm. As perfect for Lewis the way Lewis is perfect for Max.

Lewis moves up by kissing a path from Max’s chest to his neck, kissing him on the mouth with pride. Max cups Lewis' face with both of his hands, holding him in place so he can look the man in his eyes and say “I love you. So much.”

It’s so sincere, Max almost wonders where his own ability to be this free in something so secret comes from.

Lewis smiles — all bright teeth and blushy cheeks, eyes shining with mirth — and says, “I love you too.”

Max kisses him one more time before turning them both around, laying Lewis on the bed and kissing his neck, mouthing at the skin, making it red but not enough to leave a lasting mark.

Max’s hands trail all over Lewis' body, tweaking at a nipple and receiving a gasp he swallows with his own mouth, until he finds Lewis' dick. He massages him a few times through the fabric.

Lewis pleads helplessly, “Please— take my clothes off, I’m gonna come like this.”

“You close?”

“So close. You can’t imagine what it’s like seeing you surrender to my touch. It— it gets me on a whole other high.” Lewis' confession makes Max’s heart beat even faster for him. Max has struggles with letting go of control sometimes, he’s quite sure he subconsciously showed this to Lewis before, and he’s finally getting in the headspace of giving Lewis full control, of shamelessly submitting to anything Lewis wants to do to him.

Because he trusts Lewis.

Because he loves Lewis.

Max can’t find the words to respond, just presses another kiss to Lewis' jawline instead and pulls Lewis' dick out of his pants. He spits in his hand, probably not nearly enough to be smooth but Lewis' a leaker anyway — his underwear is wet from all his pre-come already and it eases the way, mingling with Max’s spit.

Max focuses on kissing Lewis' chest, on taking a nipple in his mouth and sucking on it whilst jerking his lover off with all the devotion he has and feels for him. In return, Lewis keeps muttering his I-love-yous directly into Max’s ear, and it gets Max even more motivated and warm to get Lewis to feel that same high he was on a handful of minutes ago.

Lewis' nails scratch and fail to grip at something on Max’s back, the red lines stinging already but Max relishes it. Lewis' mantra falters bit by bit as he gasps for breath, Max’s hand getting faster and working him off harder than before.

“Max—”

“Come for me, sir.”

“Max!” Lewis moans, spilling all over Max’s hand. Max shamelessly licks his hand clean, similarly to what Lewis had done to him. He’s used to the taste of Lewis' come now, and he thinks there’s something special about how he’s liking the bitterness of it. Maybe it’s because he’s a bit dazed by his horniness. Maybe it’s because it’s Lewis.

They take a few minutes to catch their breath, kissing slowly and tasting each other, legs tangled together with no intention of going anywhere. Time’s ticking, he knows, but he can have a minute or two more.

He’s not clinging to the time as much as he used to.

Lewis isn’t going anywhere, Max’s got faith in this. Max isn’t going anywhere either.

—

Lewis is fidgeting with his pants, dressing up. Max hands Lewis his hoodie and then pulls him close by the pocket on his tummy, kissing him once more just because he can.

He dexterously slips a fresh stroopwafel from the stroopwafel stand at the beginning of the paddock into Lewis' hoodie. He brought it with him before Lewis swung over. The cookies are addicting, and it was an honest shame to hear that Lewis had never had those before.

“I’ll see you in Italy, huh?’

“What’s I-love-you in Ital— actually, it doesn’t matter,” Lewis leans up on his toes and whispers to Max’s mouth, “I can say it in English now, and that’s most important in the end.”

Max presses a kiss to Lewis' nose, “It’s ti amo, but ‘I love you’ works too.”

“The amount of google translate tabs I have open is absurd.”

“Have you been saying it in other languages all this time to get it off your chest or something?” Max moves back a bit, heart beating fast as the revelation dawns on him. Lewis wears his heart on his sleeve, of course he’d burst at the seams if he didn’t let this out one way or another.

“Yeah, I figured it was too fast in English, and you seemed to loooove showing off your language skills,” Lewis teases.

“Oh shut up!”

“Not everyone’s so extremely fluent as you, Max Verstappen.” Lewis winks, pressing a kiss to the corner of Max’s mouth before stepping out of his motorhome. Max follows him to close the door after him, “See you in Italy.”

“See ya there,” Max says, then whispers, “Babe.”

Lewis smiles brightly, “I missed that. Keep saying it, okay?”

“I will. Bye, Lewis.”

Lewis walks away and throws one last, “Ciao!” over his shoulder.

God, Max is so gone for this man.

—

He moves to his bedroom to clean his sheets before preparing for his shower. He is reluctant to wash Lewis' scent away, but he has no choice if he wants to be relatively decent for his colleagues during debrief.

His phone pings and he fishes it from where it lay abandoned on a table.

[Lewis]: attachment.

Max opens the picture. It’s a photo of Lewis with the stroopwafel Max had snuck into his hoodie. On the wrapping, Max had written Ik houd van jou — the Dutch translation of I love you.

[Lewis]: ik houd ook van jou.

Max smiles brightly and his entire face flushes. He feels sappy — the whole gift was sappy, writing on the wrapping was sappy, but it’s okay. His stomach is filled to the brim with brightly coloured butterflies and it makes him nothing but incredibly happy. And reading Lewis say this in Max’s mother language makes him infatuated on a whole other level.

Yeah, this is a good weekend.

monza, italy; september 12, 2021

The brightly lit room is eerily silent.

Max shuffles in his seat and focuses on the skin around his nails, pushing it back. He should file his nails soon.

Beside Max sits his Jonathan Wheatley, accompanied by a handful other Red Bull employees. He’s calm and shares Max' opinion. Which is calming him, a little bit.

What’s not calming him is Lewis. Lewis sits on the other side of a flimsy plastic shield between the two teams.

A steward clears his throat, “So, gentlemen. Both of you, please tell us your side of the incident. Don’t interrupt each other, you’ll get your time to talk.”

It seems everyone is mildly sick and tired of the rivalry between Lewis and Max, huh.

Max nods when it’s his turn to speak. He explains how he drove over the straight and got near Lewis' car as Lewis left the pits. He knew they were fighting for position, so Max opened the battle and when he saw a possibility, he took it. He got beside Lewis toward turn two, “And if he had left me space, which is what you do when you’re racing, we’d have survived that turn and my car wouldn’t have ended up on top of him. But instead we’re here, crashed, and DNF'd.”

He sinks back in his seat with a sigh. This was supposed to be a race win, or at least a P2. The fight was fair, but Lewis changed his line as Max attacked, resulting in Max' car hitting the kerb, flying on top of Lewis' car, and sending both cars into the gravel. No position, no win, no points, no change in the championship.

He hears Lewis huff a quiet laugh, silent enough to be missed by the Stewards, loud enough for Max to hear.

They were doing so well in this battle — not counting the disaster in Silverstone — and in keeping the rivalry on track, whilst maintaining somewhat of a healthy relationship off-track. Somewhat healthy. They’re trying.

They were going in an upwards spiral of getting closer. Ever since Max confessed his love to Lewis too, they’ve done nothing but text each other sickening sappy-ass messages, send secret glances and soft blushes across the room. There’s a power in having a secret fuckbuddy, but there’s an even stronger power in having a secret lover, someone with whom you reciprocate feelings whilst no one knows.

And then Lewis hadn’t left Max space on track to race, Max got angry and had to cool off. He was summoned to the Stewards a few hours later to do his talking.

That’s where he’s sitting now. Annoyed, bothered, and angry at Lewis. The flimsiest moment on track has him doubting everything all over again. If he’s this angry over a race incident, would they even survive a relationship? Lewis' contract is open for at least another two years — as well as Max's. Lewis might retire after that, but he might also keep going until he’s physically unfit. Who knows. Age seems to mostly matter when you get into F1, not when you get out. Especially not if you’re still on the podium every race. Can they live together and leave frustrations like these on-track only? At this moment, Max doubts it.

Lewis' eyes burn Max' skin. Max refuses to look back.

Lewis tells his part of the story, explaining that Max wasn’t even next to Lewis when he ended on the kerbs: “He should’ve lifted, maybe then we could’ve shared a podium.”

Max grinds his teeth.

The stewards nod in sync with each other, and one says, “Thank you both, gentlemen. We’ll release the results later.”

—

Max kicks the leg of his table. The table moves a bit, but doesn’t fall over. His toes hurt. He’s annoyed. This is not how this weekend was supposed to go. A nice result over the sprint weekend, a good qualification, a good race. Until he crashed.

His phone floods with messages and pictures of how he ended up on top of Lewis. How he “likes to be on top” of Lewis.

Max sighs. He doesn’t wanna be anywhere near Lewis right now.

What are they gonna do — have silent and impersonal sex again and then walk away from each other as if they had never met before? Like they did in Hungary? No.

What else is there, pretending everything’s fine and they’re absolute besties, hanging out and putting the entire race out of their minds and prominently not talking about it? That ‘bottling up emotions’ way of living works for many parts of Max' life, but Lewis reads him too well. Lewis knows which buttons make Max tick. Max has been too vulnerable with Lewis, and only now does he start to doubt whether or not that’s healthy. Maybe he should put distance between them. Maybe he should end it before it goes massively wrong.

His phone buzzes in his hand. Max shakes his head – five more minutes, then he’s gonna shower and sleep. His boss will inform him about his potential penalty later. He doesn’t care for the internet’s speculations right now. They don’t understand the sport anyway.

He runs his hands through his hair and sighs deeply.

If he’s truly honest with himself, he wishes to be near Lewis so goddamn badly. He wishes to be near his lover Lewis, Lewis-who-loves-him-Lewis, but not racing driver Lewis. Not Mercedes’ most prominent driver Lewis. Not the Lewis his car ended up on top of.

He just wishes to inhale his lover’s scent, to run his hands through the man’s braids and kiss his soft lips tenderly. To be near him and forget about every aspect of the race.

But being near Lewis means thinking about racing, because in the end, that’s all that ties them together. They’re racing drivers, they’re title contesters, they’re rivals.

And they’re also in love, and that sucks so much in times like these.

Max closes his eyes and sees nothing but Lewis' sparkly eyes. When he opens them again, he’s reminded of Lewis' cold words, how he called Max a reckless driver, how he praised himself for leaving space during other battles on track. Even though that was exactly the issue right now – Lewis did not leave him space, pushed him onto the kerbs and sent him flying through the air.

He just. He – he doesn’t know what to do. He wants to be close to his lover, but not his rival, and they just happen to be the same person.

He doesn’t even know what Lewis wants from him. He’s pretty sure the guy hates him right now, so why should he even bother?

Before he heads into his shower, he checks his phone for any updates. In between a handful of instagram notifications and tweets, there’s a text message buried that catches his eye instantly, like something shiny in a pile of dull leaves.

[Lewis]: I could really go for a massage of yours, rn.

Max swallows audibly and types back.

i thought you’d hate me [Max]

The honesty of his message strikes him only when Lewis types back. He didn’t even let himself think twice about sharing his thoughts, an underlying tone of desperation not carefully hidden. Maybe he really is too vulnerable with Lewis, too easily himself, unguarded and fragile. Why does something so bad feel so good?

[Lewis]: Max, we’re idiots on track. Please don’t let us be idiots off-track too.

Max takes a relieved breath, as if all his worries from today’s crash slip through his fingers like water. Like that was all he needed – the confirmation that Lewis doesn’t hate him, that he can separate business and pleasure better than Max himself. He nods to his phone screen, has just enough decency to step out of his race suit and into some normal pants and shirt, before he heads onto the paddock and walks to Lewis' home.

His head is down when he steps into Lewis' motorhome, shoulders hanging low. Lewis lets him in with a kiss on his cheek, squeezing Max' bicep, and just mutters, “Meet me in the bedroom.”

Max takes a second or two to greet Lewis' dog – Roscoe’s tail was wagging excitedly as he entered Lewis' home, so he figured he’d show some basic decency and at least greet the being. It’s true that petting a dog gives humans a small wave of happiness. Max might’ve felt nervous and bothered before he entered Lewis' home, but he feels just a tad more relaxed now, with the soft fur between his fingers. He rises again, silently saying bye to Roscoe as he retreats to his little basket.

Max looks at Lewis where he’s leaning against the doorpost of his bedroom. There’s a soft sparkle in his eyes from watching Max pet his dog, but he doesn’t mention it. He doesn’t smile either, when Max steps closer to him.

If there’s any person in the world who can make Max feel better right now, it’s Lewis, no matter how cruel it sounds.

Right after Lewis opens the door to his bedroom, he swirls around, tosses Max a bottle of massage oil, and drops himself on the bed. He looks adorable, if anything. Comfy in his hoodie, warm and cuddled up, relaxed in his sweatpants. He turns around and lays on his chest on the bed, arms under his head.

Max hesitates.

He doesn’t want to straddle Lewis' ass immediately, worried it’ll lead to that silent and frustrated sex like they had back in Hungary. Lewis doesn’t seem to hate him, or feel as conflicted about it all as he did back then, but still. Not taking the invite means it won’t end up there.

Instead, he sits down beside Lewis' hips. He watches how Lewis takes off his hoodie and throws it onto the ground, discarded for another time. He sees how the sweatpants Lewis is wearing are Max' own, a pair he must’ve stolen all the way back from Max' house in Monaco. Max bites his lip – he hadn’t expected Lewis to keep those all this time, and to actually wear them too.

“Where’s it hurt?” Max asks.

“Hmm, neck,” Lewis groans, “Hurts to move.”

Max nods. On the footage the stewards showed him, he could see how his tire ended up on Lewis' head. The Halo on the car did a great job protecting Lewis, but not enough to leave him unharmed. It wasn’t bad enough for him to go and see a doctor, but it can’t have been pleasant either.

Silently, Max gets some drops of the massage oil in his hand and warms them up. He spreads the oil over Lewis' inked shoulders, making the still I rise shine, before digging his fingers in. Lewis groans, muffled by the pillow, where it hurts and where it’s nice.

The silence is eerie, almost. Once it drags on too long, Max doesn’t dare break it. For a second or two he realises he’s pushing his fingers into Lewis' skin a bit too harshly — still carrying the frustrations of the race in his body. He gathers himself when he sees Lewis' knitted eyebrows. He seems uncomfortable but too polite to say something about it.

Max takes a deep breath and grounds himself. He’s not going to be petty and childish to hurt Lewis' muscles because of a race incident, is he?

He loses himself in his head a bit, just focuses on pushing his fingers into Lewis' skin, following the lines of his muscles the same way Max' trainer does. The repetitive motions are calming, like a sort of meditation. He feels his own shoulders relax as he focuses on the ease with which his fingers slip over Lewis' skin.

It feels as satisfying as cracking his fingers during a press conference — something he does to get his fingers out of their tight hold on his steering wheel and back into the fluid and flexible muscles. Bit by bit, he feels the energy of Racing Driver Max Verstappen ease out of his veins and he calms down to just Max Verstappen. With his own calm comes his appreciation of Lewis. The man might be his rival, he’s really also just a dude. A dude Max loves.

Their circumstances are annoying, to say the least. But it’s not impossible to make it work, is it?

He smiles, “You good?” A quick glance at his watch tells him he’s been massaging Lewis for a steady ten minutes. He feels it in his thumbs.

“Aahh,” Lewis all but moans, “Very good. This is exactly what I needed.”

“I’m glad,” Max says, and as he says it, he realises that it’s the truth. Where he thought he wanted nothing more than to stay away from Lewis, being near him had actually made him realise that this closeness is what he needed. What felt initially like something he owed Lewis — after landing his tyre on top of Lewis' head, causing this strain in his muscles — now feels like something he enjoys doing.

“How are you?” Lewis asks, and Max knows he means you seemed angry, are you better?

“Frustrated, of course,” Max chuckles, “But that’s this line of work, huh? Sometimes it goes how you want it, and sometimes it doesn’t.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Lewis smiles, looking up at Max, and Max feels like this is the first time they’ve made eye contact.

Max leans down and presses a kiss into Lewis' hair.

“I really hated you for a second, at the stewards.”

“I could tell.”

“Sorry.”

“Is okay, emotions run high.” Lewis turns around to lay on his back. “Sleep with me?”

“There’s sexier ways to ask that,” Max chuckles, already laying down beside his lover.

“Hmm, probably,” Lewis rolls on his side and wraps his arm around Max' waist, “You could’ve given me a happy end to this massage, too.”

“You’d have fallen asleep before I even got hard.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lewis says, but it gets lost in the comfort of their room. Max sees Lewis' eyes fall shut, so he moves them around so Lewis can lay on his chest and rest there. He watches his lover drift off.

Max watches how Lewis slumbers in his hold. He traces lines over Lewis' skin, his tattoos, goosebumps forming on his biceps and arms. He wants to reach out and grab the blanket to cover Lewis and warm him up, but he’s too afraid that moving will pull Lewis out of this drowsy state. Max is baffled by the amount of trust Lewis puts in him so often. The whole world could see how angry Max was as he climbed out of his car and did his walk of shame over the grid and into the garage, followed by Lewis a bit further behind. Max didn’t even spare a glance in Lewis' direction, not when he saw Lewis attempt to reverse from under Max' car. Max is sure that Lewis would’ve tried to continue the race had he been able to move away.

So Max walked into his own garage, frustrated and annoyed. He’d gone into his driver room to drink some water, then talked to his engineer about the call from the Stewards. They’d reviewed some footage from the crash before heading into the Stewards’ office to have their say.

And despite all of his visible anger and frustrations, which everyone could tell were directed at Lewis as well, Lewis invited him into his home and has now fallen asleep on his chest. Despite the fact that Max looked ready to punch a hole in a wall, Lewis had offered his body up for gentle touches.

It’s like Lewis handed him a porcelain vase and trusted Max to not break it, even if Max didn’t trust himself.

Max takes a deep breath. Lewis really is perfect for him, isn’t he? Anyone else would’ve given up on him instantly. And he couldn’t blame those people.

Lewis shivers beside him, opening his eyes.

Max shuffles from under Lewis and covers him with the blanket, warming him up. He rubs his hands over Lewis' skin through the blanket to make him comfortable. Max kisses his forehead, “Get some rest, baby. I’m gonna head to my place before someone comes looking for me.”

Lewis smiles, “Can you say I love you in Russian?”

“I’ve been told off for my language skills, so you gotta deal with my English for now,” Max winks.

Lewis rolls his eyes, “You can admit that you don’t know. This is a safe space.”

“Hey! What if I do know?” Max mocks offence.

“Talk to me in Russian,” Lewis challenges.

“Talk to me in Russia,” Max counters.

“I will.” Lewis hugs his blanket a bit tighter, “I love you, Max, even on messy days like these.”

“We’ve been through worse,” Max shrugs, more as a reminder to himself than to Lewis. He kisses Lewis' braids once more. “See you in Russia, love you too.”

The bright lights of his motorhome don’t feel that eerie anymore.

sirius, russia; september 26, 2021

Sometimes Max is lucky.

He isn’t often lucky, not in this sport. He’s usually the one found guilty — like how he received a three-place grid penalty for ‘causing a collision’, aka his incident with Lewis in Italy. Or he doesn’t finish, his tire blows, or someone crashes into him and effectively breaks half of his car to ruin the balance.

Misfortune. It’s everywhere.

But sometimes the world works wonders.

Sometimes he’s starting last on the grid — due to the aforementioned penalty and a change of his engine giving him an extra penalty — and rain falls and chaos ensues and he finishes second. Damage limitation was the goal, finishing within points, but on the podium too? Like a gift from above, if Max believed in anything supernatural. He was quick to call it when the drops started falling, pitting for a nice set of intermediates before the rain got too heavy. The drivers before him all pitted later, and with only a few laps left, the entire grid essentially wiped itself out before his eyes and handed him that silver trophy.

Thank you, rain.

He felt good, secure and safe in his skin as he stepped out of his RB16B, enjoying the double-take Lewis had to do to confirm it was Max next to him, and not Max' teammate.

Yep, it’s me.

Spraying each other with champagne and sitting in their soaked race suits in the press conference, joking with each other — it just felt right. Everything felt right, for a moment. After all the hardships they’d gone through, with Silverstone and Hungary and Monza, they deserve something nice. Some drama-free time, together.

Lewis smiles brightly as he lets Max into his motorhome, bubbling with excitement.

Max smiles as he looks at his lover — his shining eyes and perfect set of teeth make him look like an angel, and it’s unbelievably all for Max to enjoy. He opens his arms, “Well race winner, how do you want me?”

“100 race wins,” Lewis gently corrects, winking smugly. Then his demeanour changes in its subtlest of ways. He bites his lip, shuffling his feet, eyes not meeting Max'. He reaches behind him, grabbing an item from his back pocket.

A blindfold.

Max raises a curious eyebrow, “You want me to blindfold you?“

“Oh— I, well,” Lewis clears his throat, “I actually wanted to blindfold you…”

“I- I thought, because it’s your win, I'd treat you—“ Max scratches behind his ear. He’s never been blindfolded before, despite finding the idea more than intriguing. His dick twitches in his pants, and he contemplates for the shortest of seconds — would he be able to give away his vision like that?

Formula One drivers are trained to make their decisions in the quickest of moments, not hesitating, always training the reflective abilities and pushing themselves to the max.

Max scans Lewis — his lip is still worried between his teeth, eyes bright and curious, possibly also thinking about getting blindfolded.

He makes the decision. If there’s one man he’d trust to blindfold him, after all they’ve shown to get through, it’ll be Lewis.

“You can blindfold me,” Max says, breaking the tense silence of the motorhome. His voice refrains from breaking, which he’s grateful for. He’s very insecure about giving away control like this, usually controlling every last bit of every situation he can. He doesn’t rely on luck, normally it brings him nowhere. He usually orchestrates everything, doesn’t need luck. Doesn’t need uncertainties.

Lewis lights up and Max instantly knows he made the right choice. He’s given away control to Lewis before, and Lewis has given control to Max before. It’s a healthy balance.

Lewis steps toward Max and wraps his arms around the taller man. Before he kisses Max, he mutters, “You’re so sexy when you trust me.”

“Hmm,” Max rubs his nose against Lewis', “You’re so sexy when you’ve got a plan.”

Lewis kisses Max, then steps away, walking backwards into the bedroom, “My plan’s to be world champion for the eighth time, but someone’s making it hard for me.”

“Oh, I bet I’m making it real hard for you,” Max follows Lewis, eyes hungrily scanning the man before him.

Lewis rolls his eyes and yet bites his lip. His voice is deeper when he says, “Undress and sit on the bed.”

Max gulps but follows the command like he’s never known how to do anything but obey whatever Lewis demands of him. He slips out of his jeans and throws his shirt away in the void of the bedroom. He crawls onto the bed, already familiar with the size of it, the feeling of the blankets, the way it dips when he moves around. He sits against the headboard, hands folded in his lap — patient, waiting, excited.

Lewis smirks as he follows Max. He’s placed the blindfold on the bed beside Max' ankles.

“You still wear my clothes?” Max asks, admiring the way the fabric falls over Lewis' frame, tight around his arms, looser around his hips.

“I always bring one thing with me, sweatpants or a hoodie. It’s nice,” He shrugs, almost ashamed. Then he whispers, “They don’t smell like you, anymore. That’s a shame.” He takes off the sweater and lays it beside Max on the bed.

Max cocks his head, “You look good in my clothes,” He notes.

“Yeah?” Lewis smiles, almost private, “You like it when I wear something from you? The whole world can just find out–”

“I don’t care about the whole world,” Max interrupts, “I care about you.”

Lewis beams up, eyes sparkling as he crawls over the bed and into Max' lap, cupping Max' face and kissing him. Max can taste the sudden hunger, the desire, the shift in the atmosphere on Lewis' lips. Max' hands effortlessly find Lewis' hips as he holds him close.

“You’re hot when you’re honest,” Lewis says, muffled against Max' lips.

“You’re rather complementary today, aren’t you?” Max kisses Lewis' jawline, smiling as he does so.

“It’s a good day, you know. Wild race, wild wins, surprising to see you on the podium.” Lewis shrugs, a minuscule movement Max only feels because his lips are on the shorter man’s shoulders.

“It’s not making the championship easier for you, eh?” Max grins, he loves this season, he loves challenging an undefeated-for-years team and their driver, he loves working his ass off race after race.

“No, it’s not, but it is making racing a lot of fun.”

Max moves back a bit, “Had you gotten bored?” It’s a genuine question, something unrelated to their relationship entirely, but Max finds himself more and more interested in the person under that helmet. Where last race he wanted nothing to do with racing-driver-Lewis, he now feels like he should at least get to know him. He knows how big a part racing is in his own life, so it’s big in Lewis' too.

“Bored is a big word, but I haven’t been challenged like this in years and it’s relieving to battle on track again, to step out of the car drenched in sweat and more proud than ever to receive a first or second place.”

“Takes you back to the karting days, huh?” Max smiles, kissing Lewis' jawline.

“Yeah, exactly. Reminds you of what you do it all for,” Lewis cups Max' face to move him away from where he was trailing a line of kisses down Lewis' skin. “But enough about racing–”

“Awh, I was just gonna fetch the interview questions I had prepared!” Max uses one of his hands as if he’s holding a microphone, “Sir Lewis, what’s your opinion on your biggest rival yet?” He mimics one of the ten questions every interviewer asks. Originality is nowhere to be found when there’s only one topic everyone cares about.

“Hm,” Lewis leans back, reaching for the blindfold, “Great driver, a better lover, a little bit stubborn, has no ass at all, but it’s okay, he makes up for it with his dick.”

Max flushes, his skin reddening all the way from his cheeks to his chest, “Oh my, what a scoop! Can you give a ‘sclusie and tell us about the nature of your relationship with–”

“One more question and I’m using the blindfold over your mouth,” Lewis says, giggling.

“Dearie me, this interview is taking a turn…” Max wiggles his eyebrows. It’s the last thing he gets to do before his world goes dark. He takes a shivering breath, swallows, and bites his lip.

The weight on his thighs is suddenly very heavy, he can smell Lewis' sweat and he hears every breath Lewis takes.

“You okay?” Lewis asks, voice low and serious.

“Yeah,” Max breathes, his character gone completely.

Lewis kisses Max' neck, placing soft kiss after soft kiss onto his skin. Every sensation is amplified, every touch ripples all over his body. He feels the length of Lewis' nails as Lewis wiggles his fingers under Max' waistband, and he peels it from Max' skin.

The touch disappears, Lewis' weight gone from Max' thighs like water slipping through his fingers. Max takes a breath, not daring to ask where Lewis went as if it breaks a fragile silence and puts cracks into the whole scene.

He closes his eyes and focuses on the sounds.

Here is where he finds his answers — Lewis is on his right-hand side, shuffling about, shimmying out of his pants. The drawer of the nightstand creaks as Lewis opens it, fingers dancing around until they curl around something, his nails scratch the wood.

The bed dips beside Max' thighs, then around his legs. Lewis makes himself comfortable in between Max' legs, as he kisses Max' thighs. Max groans when Lewis leaves a bite mark — something to never forget him by. As if Max ever could.

Max hisses in surprise when Lewis licks a stripe up his shaft, hands itching to reach out and grab his hair, but this is Lewis' scene and he isn’t sure he’s allowed to touch him. He squeezes the bed sheets instead.

Lewis takes Max in his mouth, sucking him with no goal other than to keep him busy, awake, and hard. His blowjob is sloppy at best, and when Max spares just enough peace of mind to focus on what he’s hearing, he notices the wet sounds of Lewis' lubed fingers scissoring himself open. Max curses. Lewis is prepping himself whilst sucking Max and it’s got to make the absolute sluttiest image ever and Max can’t see it.

Max takes a shivering breath when Lewis' mouth fades from his dick entirely — suddenly cold.

The bed dips on either side of him and he feels the warmth of Lewis' body close to him. One of Lewis' hands — still covered in lube — slicks Max' dick up, whilst the other cups his face.

“You ready?” Lewis whispers, as if he, too, feels how fragile this silence is.

“Yeah,” Max whispers, reaching up to kiss Lewis, “I love you.”

Lewis sinks down on Max' dick, moaning as he glides down. Max joins him in his serenade of groans.

“Fuck, you fill me up perfectly.” Lewis sounds breathless.

Max' tentative fingers reach out to find Lewis' hips, holding him in place. He wants to encourage Lewis to move, to do something, so he whispers, “All yours, babe.”

It works — Lewis finds a steady hold around Max' neck as he works himself up and down on Max' dick, as he rides him, gently, but hungrily. His thighs shake on every downfall, Max feels every twitch of his muscles through the bedsheets, through his fingertips. It’s so empowering for Lewis to be able to do anything to Max, however he wants, and Max won’t be able to see it. Him.

Max feels like he’s drowning in all the sensations, barely kept afloat by the heavy panting in his ear — that of himself, but certainly that of Lewis. He senses the warmth of Lewis' body against his own, the shifting of his chest, the rise and fall as he breathes. The warmth of his hole, tight around Max' dick. The scraping of his nails on Max' shoulder blades.

Lewis leans down to kiss Max' neck, nip the skin, suck mark after mark. He’s possessive today, and Max is all on board for it.

Max can sense Lewis' increased breathing, his shallow movements on Max' dick, his tense thighs, and he knows Lewis' close to coming.

He’s missed out on so many visuals today already, he can’t miss seeing Lewis come.

“Lewis— Lewis,” Max mutters. Lewis immediately moves up and stops.

“Wha—”

“Can I see you come? I have to see you come, Lew,” His please is resting on his lips.

“Yeah,” Lewis breathes, relieved — he curls his fingers around the knot and unties it.

Max' pupils take their time to adjust to the sudden burst of light — the brightness of the setting sun outside, the orange hue it brings to highlight Lewis' curves and edges, the glitter in Lewis' eyes, the sweat on his body.

He is gorgeous.

Max licks his lips, “God, you’re gorgeous.” He feels like he doesn’t say that enough.

Lewis immediately flushes — a pink shade already on his cheeks is now darker than before. He opens his mouth to say something, something meaningful, something heavy, it seems. But all that comes out is, “I’m so close.”

“I know,” Max smiles. He uses his hold on Lewis' hips to manhandle him into position — fold him over backwards, lay him down on his back, wrap his legs around Max' hips. Max grabs Lewis' wrists, puts them together, and presses them down on the bed. Lewis is all open and ready for him, accepting everything he does.

“Good?” Max asks, just to be sure.

“Fuck me, Max.”

“Oh, I will.” Max' smirk is as devilish as Lewis has ever seen, shivers sending him straight to the darkest parts of a lust-filled hell.

Max is very close himself, but he needs Lewis to come first, needs to see all of it. He thrusts into Lewis with no remorse. Now able to take in all the minuscule movements on Lewis' face, the twitches of his eyebrows, the swipes of his tongue over his lips…

Max kisses Lewis, hand finding his cock, curling around it. He has taken full control of Lewis' scene when he whispers, “Fuck into my hand.”

Lewis arches his back and does his best to fuck into Max' hand, simultaneously fucking himself on Max' dick. He’s covered by Max everywhere. His hands, his legs, his dick, his mouth. He reaches up to bite down on the sensitive skin where Max' neck meets his shoulder, muffling his groan as he comes all over his chest.

Lewis clenches around Max' dick and it takes Max only a few more thrusts to come into Lewis as well.

Max' grip on Lewis' wrists falters and Lewis uses this to tangle his fingers with Max'.

“That… was intense.” Lewis presses butterfly kisses to Max' neck and face, whilst Max catches his breath.

Max smiles against Lewis' lips, “Good gift for your 100th race win?”

Lewis smiles back, all soft and relaxed — warm and in love, “The best, ever. I love you too, by the way.”

“I know you do,” Max kisses Lewis again, “Glad you enjoyed it.”

“Wouldn’t know anyone else who can make me feel the way you do,” Lewis adds, “You’re special to me.”

Max bites his lip — after all they’ve been through, Lewis is still so appreciative, so mature, so certain of them and it means so much to him. He can’t find the words to respond, so he kisses Lewis once more.

“Let me get you cleaned up.” Max slides out of Lewis, stepping away from the bed, heading to the bathroom. He’s grabbed his underwear and pants on his way as he warms water for a washcloth. When he comes back into the bedroom, Lewis is halfway through dozing off, eyes barely open enough to see Max reenter. Max cleans Lewis almost methodically, careful not to get him out of this daze.

He kisses Lewis' forehead before he tucks Lewis into the bed, watches him rest. When he leaves the motorhome, he feels like a happier man.

Sometimes Max is lucky.

tuzia, turkey; october 10, 2021

This race was supposed to take place in Japan, but here they are in Turkey instead. The Red Bull team is paying homage to their engine supplier Honda by having given their cars and suits a special white livery. It’s much brighter than the signature dark blue of the Red Bull, and it’s a nice breather for a while. Max absolutely loves the colour.

He’s standing in the garage, no longer lulled into a conversation he partook in seconds ago, but still surrounded by his crew members. He’s had his time to look at the white car, his white suit, and admire it up close. But now it feels a tad bittersweet – it’s Sunday, a successful race closed off with both himself and his teammate on the podium, taking second and third place. Valtteri Bottas had won this one, Lewis down on P5 due to strategy choices.

Max is looking at the white livery, knowing it’s the last time he’ll see it in the garage. After this it will be a memory, lasting in pictures, drawings, and maybe a real car in the garage in Milton Keynes with this livery, never to be used again. A museum artefact, if you will. He’s looking at the car as if he’s saying goodbye. A thank you, because it’s given him an amazing race. He’s said before he doesn’t care what colour the car is, it won’t affect his racing anyway, but if he’s true to himself he does enjoy the different liveries, the change in a continuum, the small shift before it goes back to normal.

Someone passes by the car and it breaks the staring contest Max had with the inanimate object. He looks at the bar by his side and grabs his phone, mindlessly scrolling through instagram as he stays in the garage. Slowly, the soft murmurs of ongoing conversations fade from his hearing, and before he knows it, he’s left alone in the garage.

Just him, and the RB16B in its white livery.

There’s the echoes of a ping on his phone reminding him of debrief in an hour and a half, but he pays it no mind. He steps, as if hypnotised, to the car, running his fingers over the stickers with his race number, the names of sponsors, the logos.

It’s baffling to him that the car wasn’t the first thing to get cleaned up, dragged away to a container and shipped off to the next race, or the factory. Usually, they get taken away rather quickly, as if over and done with. His mind provides him with the idea that people might still want to take pictures of the car in its special livery. Whatever it may be, no one seems to be planning on moving the car away soon. It’s rare — being left alone with the car, uncovered and out in the open, like this. He can’t recall it ever having happened before, but then again, usually, he’s out and about as soon as a race and all its formalities end.

As he runs his fingertips over the car, his mind wanders off to Lewis. He thinks about touching Lewis, Lewis' skin, his hard lines and soft edges… He should go out to Lewis now before time runs out. He should go back to his trailer, get out of his sticky, champagne-drenched suit and into something more comfortable, before heading to Lewis' and spending time with him.

He looks around, listens for any sound, approaching footsteps, chatting people — but he hears nothing. The computers around him are turned off, his helmet and balaclava have been taken away and cleaned up already.

But no one’s coming for him, or the car.

Max whips out his phone — home screen empty save for the meeting later today — and opens his chat thread with Lewis.

hey, come to the garage [Max]

It takes Lewis barely a minute to read the message and start typing.

[Lewis]: the red bull garage? you think i’ll be let in?

don’t be a pussy, i have been in the merc garage before. [Max]

and… I am alone 😉 [Max]

He thinks he cannot physically get any more suggestive than this, so Lewis must take the hint.

[Lewis]: if i get the FIA or red bull on my arse for this, i’m showing them our chat

Max smirks. If Lewis were to get caught, Max will take the fall, he’ll figure it out, create an excuse, save him. He wants to type a message to motivate Lewis, a quip to send back, but he sees Lewis is typing, so he waits.

[Lewis]: give me five minutes.

Max sends a wink back, placing his phone on the counter behind him. He walks another circle around the car — it’s lit from above, a fluorescent lamp from the ceiling lighting the car like it’s on a special pedestal in heaven.

And it should be treated as an artefact — it’s a race-winning car! And maybe soon a championship-winning car. Maybe not in special-livery white, but in old-fashioned Red Bull blue. Who knows. For now, all Max can do is close his eyes and listen until he hears careful footsteps echo over the halls to get into the garage.

When Max opens his eyes, he’s greeted with a nervous but familiar face creeping around the corner and looking into the garage with big brown eyes, light reflecting the diamond on his nose. Lewis takes a relieved breath and steps into the garage. He takes off the hood — it’s one of Max's, Max recognizes — and whisper-screams, “Dude, sneaking into this garage is the scariest thing I’ve ever done. And I believe in ghosts and went to haunted houses.”

Max snorts instantly, this dude and his obsession with disturbing those lost souls that realm the earth. God, it’d make a great headline for an article, but Max is too fond of the guy to even think of sharing his ghost adventures with the world.

“Nope,” Lewis says, stepping closer to Max. “Not opening the ghost debate again.” The car is in between them, and its ceiling light lights Lewis' face up like he’s a suspect in a crime case, tied to the table in between them, and Max is the detective. Except they’re not investigating a case, nor is there a table in between.

The handcuffs are optional though.

“You are wearing the same sweater you stole from my place, though.” Max thinks back at Lewis in his doorpost, gathering his stuff, wearing this particular sweater, getting ready for a flight away from Monaco. To leave the race behind, but to only draw Max in closer.

Lewis mutters something about memories — they’re seemingly trapped in the same memento, in Max' bedroom in Monaco, after an intense scene. Max hopes Lewis is thinking about going back to Max' place, because when this season is over, Max is definitely thinking about inviting Lewis back into his bed. To take his time with him, sleep together, wake up together and all those domestic datey-coupley things he was so insecure about back then. They’ve come a long way, huh.

Lewis is the first one to break the silence — to snap them out of their thoughts and back to where they are now. Turkey, Istanbul Park, Red Bull Garage. “Don’t ever let me sneak into your garage again, alone. If I get caught here, the FIA’s gonna sue my arse.”

“Eh, you will not be seen here,” Max shrugs, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. He doesn’t, but there’s something about gifted horses…

“Why did you want me here in the first place?” Lewis asks.

“Well,” Max bites his lip. He reaches over the cockpit of the car, leaning on the white livery, sliding his fingers from left to right, “He’s a beaut, isn’t he?”

“...Sure,” Lewis hesitates, not following.

Max smirks to himself. He leans over the car, grabbing the belt hooks of Lewis' jeans, pulling him closer to the car. His fingers skirt over Lewis' skin, slipping under the hoodie, sending a message.

“No,” Lewis whispers, catching Max' drift, “Not here.”

“Yeah,” Max leans up, walking around the car. Lewis spins to face Max, and Max uses this to push Lewis against the car, “Here.”

“Max,” Lewis all but moans, hands finding the cockpit behind him, covering Max's race number. His dark skin is a stark contrast to the bright white livery.

“Yeah,” Max says again, massaging Lewis' thighs. “What are we thinking? Like this?” He wraps Lewis' legs around him, pulls him close. Lewis leans his weight on Max' car — on his rival’s car. The light above them highlights Lewis' features, the nose piercing, the thin layer of sweat on his face.

Max leans down to kiss the spot behind Lewis' ear, the 44 tattoo, feeling him shiver all over.

“Or,” Max smirks, untangling Lewis' legs from behind him, putting him firmly on the ground. He spins Lewis around, covering his back with Max' chest. A gentle hand on Lewis' shoulder blades presses him down, bending him over the car. His cheek lays on Max' car, Max' race number. Everywhere he looks, there’s Red Bull — Max' name, Max' car, the Red Bull logo, the sponsors. And bent over it is Red Bull’s greatest rival. Max rolls his hips against Lewis' ass as if to send him an example of what it’s gonna be like, “Like this?”

“Fuck,” Lewis moans, rolling his ass back against Max' front.

Max massages Lewis' ass, digging into the flesh through those sexy black jeans. He kisses Lewis' neck, traces the line of his muscles with his lips. His fingers are explorative, impatient. He moves over Lewis' chest, fingers trailing lines over his skin and under his hoodie. He smiles as he moves down, cupping Lewis' dick — only to feel him hard already.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought too, bent over the car, huh,” Max notes. Then he kisses behind Lewis' ear again, “Paint it white.”

“Fuck, Max.”

Max' fingers drag away from Lewis' dick, moving to his waistband, unzipping the fly and opening the button — all agonisingly slow movements, as if he’s waiting for Lewis to stop him. Lewis doesn’t stop him, so Max drags the fabric down Lewis' skin. He runs the sweater up Lewis' back but doesn’t take it off. He bends down and kisses Lewis' spine, lips close to the elastic band of Lewis' briefs.

“How much prep do you need?” Max asks, only now realising he doesn’t exactly have lube nearby unless they wanna use, fucking, Mobil1 engine oil.

“I— was planning to surprise you,” Lewis huffs, already a tad breathless and Max is barely done anything, “So I prepped, uh, a bit.”

“Hm, good boy,” Max hums, nails scratching Lewis' skin softly as he drags the underwear down, revealing a beautiful amethyst stone wedged in between the crack of Lewis' ass — the buttplug he bought Lewis months ago. Max doesn’t hide how he gasps, how he’s baffled and impressed by Lewis and all that Lewis does for him. The love they have for each other is ever so persistent in the air around them, but also the need, the shameless desire, the deep-rooted lust.

The air is thick with tension, weighing down on both men’s lungs as they pant despite barely having done anything. Max' tentative fingers curl around the gemstone, slowly pressing it deeper into Lewis, just a little bit. He can tell how Lewis holds his breath, waiting. Max uses the plug to shallowly fuck into Lewis, keep him on an edge of more to come.

Lewis lays his head atop the car, back arching as he pants and pants. Max' left hand massages Lewis' ass, Lewis' thighs, firmly squeezing the skin. He bends down to press butterfly kisses on Lewis' shoulder blades, the outline of the wings on his back, all whilst fucking the plug into Lewis' ass.

“Ah— Max I— please, fuck me already.”

Max sighs, “No matter how many lessons in impatience I try to teach… you are still so cock-hungry.”

“Yea— yeah, but also, aah, we don’t have much- much— time.” Lewis' knuckles are white where they’re clinging to the car, nails almost scratching at the sponsors’ stickers.

Max swallows, he was just getting in the mood of slowly teasing Lewis, of edging him just how he loves, pleasing him the way only Max can. But Lewis is right. Max presses the plug in once more, then takes a step back, undoing the velcro at his neck.

“Wait—“ Lewis leans up and turns around, “Let me undress you, I—“ Lewis hesitates.

Max lets his hands fall by his side as if to say, all yours. “You…?”

“I want to pull the zipper down, peel your layers off one by one. I… I want to know what it’s like to, to take my time and undress you,” Lewis steps closer and wraps his fingers around the zipper, pulling it down slowly, “so that every time I see you in your suit, all I can think of–” He puts his arms on Max' shoulders and peels the racing suit to down his hips, “Is pulling it off.”

“Jesus, Lew,” Max bites his lip, following along to every one of Lewis' movements and helping him where needed. Lewis' fingers trace every bit of newly revealed skin as if they’ve never been together — as if they’re doing what they should’ve done that very first time they fucked each other. It feels like righting a wrong, one Max hadn’t even seen as wrong before.

Lewis kisses Max' collarbone, whispering, “You’re gorgeous.”

Max cups Lewis' face — loudly telling himself to accept the compliment — and kisses his lips, a lot more tender and soft than anything they’ve done today, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Lewis smiles, then turns around in Max' hold, bending over the car again. He looks over his shoulder and smirks a sinful smirk, “Ready?”

“Goddamn.” Max grabs Lewis' ass, slowly pulling the plug out. He whispers, “If it hurts—“

“I’ll slam your car in two.”

“Okay, Hulk, let’s go then.” He, for good measure, spits in his hand in a weak attempt to slick his dick up. It’s far from good enough, far from smooth the way lube would make this easier, but Lewis seems to insist, seems to be hungry for it. And as much as Lewis may be hungry for Max, Max is an absolute slut for Lewis as well.

Max slides into Lewis, bit by bit. He sees Lewis bite his own lip, hard until it bleeds, but nothing indicates Max to stop. He takes his time despite not having much, feeling as though he owes that. The slide of skin against skin is rough, Max feels sensitive all over.

Once he’s bottomed out — Lewis moaned his name so holily, Max thought the light from the ceiling made him look like an angel — he tries to shallowly fuck his way into Lewis.

“Fuck, Max, harder!” Lewis' left hand grabs the halo, bracing himself for impact.

“Are you—“

“Do it,” Lewis grunts through gritted teeth, pushing his hips back as if to beg for more.

“Fuck,” Max moans, hands cupping Lewis' hips. He slides out, only the tip of his dick remaining, then slides home in one go.

“Max!” Lewis arches his back, the car shakes with Lewis' strong grip on the halo, the side of the cockpit digging into Lewis' tummy. Every sticker has got to be leaving prints on Lewis' skin, as a little reminder of who he belongs to.

Max finds a rhythm, fucks into Lewis with little care for how the car shakes or how they might be heard by passersby. He is once again fully willing to obey everything Lewis asks of him, to give him the world, to hang the moon so its light always reflects Lewis' best features. He’d go above and beyond to make Lewis happy — and this time, it doesn’t scare him. The championship battle they’re fighting may be tough, but if the last few months proved anything, it’s that the two of them are strong enough to fight through it.

“Max! Fuck, fuck — I’m gonna…!” Lewis' knuckles are white again, holding the halo with his left hand and the other side of the cockpit with his right.

“Yeah?” Max teases, leaning down, “You gonna paint my car whiter than it already is?” He reaches down to curl his hand around Lewis' dick, the drag of dry skin too rough to be pleasurable, but the friction is just what Lewis seems to need.

“Fuck!” Lewis curses, coming all over the Oracle logo on Max' car. Max needs just a bit more before he’s coming too, all it takes is Lewis clenching around his cock and he’s done for.

Max slides out of him, reaching down for the plug and shoving it back into Lewis. He takes a step back to lean against a desk, catching his breath.

Lewis, still well spent, leans against the car and looks at Max. He’s smiling, shining, relaxed and filled with mirth. The light from the ceiling makes his afterglow literal as it highlights the thin layer of sweat all over his body.

Max bends down to put his underpants on again but leaves his race suit resting on his hips. His eye catches the shimmer on his car — Lewis' come.

He mutters, “People are gonna ask questions,” then shrugs, “better clean that up.” His eyes focus on the come, slowly dripping onto the barge boards.

”What?” Lewis follows his gaze, “You want me to—“

Max meets Lewis' eyes and nods.

“Fuck.” Lewis swallows, he seems to be thinking of how to assess this. Then he nods, pointing at the other side of the car, “Stand over there.”

Max frowns, but follows, legs taking him to the other side of the garage, leaning against the wall. He sees how Lewis sinks to his knees, almost vanishing behind the car. Lewis' eyes are trained on Max' as he gets close and licks the come off the car. Max doesn’t miss how Lewis has essentially taken the lead of his command, but he can’t find it within himself to mind either.

He can’t help himself — he steps closer to the car, one hand on the top of the halo and the other on his own race number. He sees how Lewis cleans his car, licking it like he’s Max' needy little slut, but really, he’s exposing how Max' a needy little slut for him.

Lewis leans back, wiping his mouth, “That was disgusting… but also hot.”

”Yeah,” Max smirks. He gets a finger under Lewis' chin and gestures him to stand up. Max kisses Lewis — all tongues and hunger, licking the remaining bit of come from his mouth. He whispers, “Good luck getting back,” but means to say never leave me.

“Yeah, you too,” Lewis smirks, “See you in America, love.”

“See ya there, babe.”

Lewis licks his lips, “I really like the pet names.”

“I know you do.” Max leans in and whispers “baby boy,” into Lewis' ear.

Lewis pushes him back, pointing at him accusatively, “Don’t steal those I reserved for you, baby boy.”

Max smirks, mouth open and ready to quip back, but then his phone pings — a reminder for the debrief in a few minutes. He still needs to get dressed, maybe shower if he’s lucky. “Alright, Lew. See you in Austin.” He cups Lewis' face and kisses his crown.

Lewis smiles back.

Looking absolutely angelic in this light.