Archive of Our Own

Three years after retirement, three months after the divorce, and three weeks before Christmas, Valtteri Bottas gets a knock on his door.

This in itself is unusual. There aren’t many solicitors in Nastola, and he isn’t expecting a delivery, or guests. Since Tiffany moved out, no one but him has stepped foot in the house. Oh god. Maybe someone’s died.

The ex-racer braces himself and opens it.

Oh. Well.

Lewis Hamilton, the newly minted ten-time World Drivers’ Champion, stands on his doorstep.

Valtteri’s old teammate looks the same as ever—neat braids and beard, skin deep and clear, gold-spangled ears and nose—yet changed in some way. Hollowed. Snowflakes gray his hair and face. He’s shaking.

In the distance, a sleek black car departs the driveway.

“Hi…?” Valtteri doesn’t mean for it to come out as a question. But it does, in place of Shouldn’t you still be celebrating? and What are you doing here, Lewis? and, most importantly, Lewis, are you alright?

“Hi,” Lewis breathes. “Sorry. Erm. C-can I come in?”

He shifts uncomfortably, and the mountain of baggage on and around him shifts too. Like he’s come straight off an airplane, the Brit’s in sweats, socks, and slides, similar to Valtteri’s own lounge clothes. It’s 08:00 in Finland. No wonder he’s shivering.

Speechless, the Finn steps aside, grabbing twin armfuls of bags as he does.

Is this some strange dream? If it is, Valtteri muses, he should do something even stranger to wake up, like yell, or hit himself, or kiss Lewis on the lips.

Instead, he hauls the man’s luggage into the living room. The heft of it feels real enough. The blond sets it down with a series of thunks.

“Th-thanks.” Lewis shudders, huddled on the threshold. The champion seems skittish, primed to flee, and Valtteri has no idea how to navigate that.

He settles for saying, “Come here.” It’s too brusque, and he cringes at himself, but Lewis shuts the door and shuffles over anyway.

Now that he’s got a closer look at the man, Valtteri sees the trees for the forest: slouched-yet-tense shoulders, dark hair tinseled silver, undereyes like empty swimming pools.

What happened to you, Lewis? Valtteri wants to ask.

Instead, the kettle whistles from the kitchen, so he says, simply, “Tea?”

The tea set is blue, dotted with small, hand-painted starlings. They wing across a porcelain sky in pairs, frozen in flight.

“Guanyu got me this,” Valtteri explains, unprompted, “for my retirement.” He hasn’t used it since he’s been alone.

Earl Grey perfumes the air as he pours Lewis, then himself, a cupful.

“Zhou?” The older man’s eyes are distant. “Nice kid.”

“Hardly a kid,” Valtteri corrects him. He doesn’t know why he’s still talking, but he can’t stop. “He’s 27 now, almost 30.” He sits with a sigh.

Lewis chuckles humorlessly. It’s not unkind. “You’re right.” He wraps tattooed fingers around his steaming cup. “Guess I forgot everyone ages, not just me.”

“Hah.” The younger man nods and scratches his stubble. “I know the feeling.”

“Do you?” The corners of Lewis’s lips lift. “You’re only—what, 37?” He scoffs. “Got almost five years on you, man. Don’t know why you retired. Looks like you’re still light enough to race.”

“I suppose.” Uncomfortable with the subject, Valtteri takes his first sip, which prompts Lewis to do the same.

The tea is good, bright citrus over bold floral, though there’s a bitter note at the end. They both hum, more or less content. Milky light trickles in through the window.

The peace, as peace does, ends.

Lewis drums deft fingers on the table. “Three seasons…” The longtime driver drifts off, then switches the topic. “Y’know, it’s been so long since I’ve been here. Almost didn’t recognize the place.”

“…Ah.” Valtteri doesn’t blame him. They’d just put in a second story over the summer, construction finished as his life quietly unconstructed itself. The irony is not lost on him.

He rubs the back of his neck and grunts at the accompanying pop. He’s getting old. His body now feels much like the house—foreign, broken in places, too big for its single inhabitant.

Lewis must see something in his face. “You holding up okay?” he asks tentatively. “With the…” He sniffs and trails off again, studying his thumbnail.

Valtteri’s learned the word “divorce” sets people on edge—even children of it, apparently. After two of his own, he’d be remiss to not have noticed.

Friends wouldn’t text, let alone call or visit. On trips home, his parents would give him pitying glances when they thought he wasn’t looking, then proceed to discuss their garden. The only people interested in speaking about it were therapists and journalists, none of whom he chose to speak with. So he hasn’t spoken.

Until now, that is.

Valtteri takes a bracing sip. Already, his tea’s cooler than he’d like. He wishes it were something stronger. “Fine.” He balls his hand on the tabletop. “Nothing to report.”

“C’mon, Val, talk to me. You’ve been, like, gone. What’s up with you, man?” Lewis’s tone is flippant, yet strained. He pokes a pale fist with a pinky.

Valtteri withdraws his hand like he’s been burned. Something ugly twists in him, ready to strike.

“I should ask you the same thing,” he says. “What are you even doing here, Lewis? Some sort of… victory lap? Making up for lost time?”

The man in question draws back slowly.

“How long has it been? Two years? Three?”

Valtteri doesn’t know where this anger is coming from, nor where to place it. It itches like an ill-fitting wool jumper. He wants to shed his skin.

“Well, congratulations, and thanks for the visit, but it’s not like we’re—” the Finn flounders, then spits, “—friends anymore.”

As soon as the venom passes his teeth, he regrets it.

Lewis looks at Valtteri like he’s never seen him before. He blinks twice. “Oh.”

Valtteri glares at the beige tablecloth, embarrassed and angry at his own embarrassment.

For a moment, he expects the Brit to leave, or swear, or throw tea in his face, but they both stay seated, motionless. Neither of them speak again until their cups are cold.

“Sorry, man,” Lewis says. To Valtteri’s horror, the man’s voice quivers. “Didn’t really know where else to go. But you’re right. I fucked up.” His last word is a pitchy whisper, and then Lewis is crying, face buried in his sleeve.

Valtteri stumbles to his feet, utterly unmoored. “Are— I—” His hand hovers halfway between himself and his guest, who’s… snotting all over his own hoodie. “Ah.”

They must have tissues somewhere. Paper towels, in a pinch. Valtteri scans the kitchen, frozen where he stands.

He motions for Lewis to remove his face from his arm. “Don’t—don’t do that.” Again, it comes out harsher than intended, and he bites back a curse.

Lewis curls further into himself. “Fuck, sorry,” he sobs. “N-not trying to, like—” He can’t finish the sentence, body heaving so hard Valtteri fears he’ll pass out. “M’just having a really ha-hard time.”

Right. No time to look for tissue.

Valtteri chances it and grabs the champion’s hands, grip gentle yet firm. He sinks onto one knee. “Hey. Breathe. Look at me.”

Bloodshot brown meets gray.

“It’s alright.” A white lie, but a necessary one. “Are you alright? What’s going on? …Did something happen with the championship?”

“T-the championship?” Lewis snorts wetly. “What, like you don’t know? Like-like everyone doesn’t know?” His breathing hitches again.

Valtteri shakes his head. He hasn’t checked his phone since the last race. What could he possibly have missed?

“I do not know,” he says, emphatic. “Please, tell me, whatever it is. I can help.”

Valtteri’s adrift. His mind sails to the darkest places: Lewis is sick. He’s in trouble. He’s hurt someone—or worse, himself.

Lewis barks a disbelieving laugh. “Nah, man, fuck you.”

The dismissal stings, but the distrust hurts worse. Valtteri bats back tears of his own.

Lewis rises, leaving the blond eye-level with his shins. He sways slightly. “Gonna go get a car.”

Valtteri cranes his neck. “Wait.”

Against all odds, Lewis does. His expression is wrecked.

Outside, a seabird caws.

“Just… get some rest first,” Valtteri says. He sinks back onto his heels, making himself small. “The bedroom’s upstairs. You can’t miss it.”

Lewis stares down at Valtteri like the homeowner’s proposed to him, or grown a second head.

He squirms. “You need sleep, Lewis.”

The stare holds. A braid slips from behind the racer’s ear.

“We don’t have a guest bed. Never bought one,” Valtteri continues, exasperated, in case that’s the issue. Mentally, he berates himself for still saying we, then shelves that matter for another day. “But our—my bed is free. So… please.”

Somehow, that does it. Lewis sags, tired, fight drained from his frame. Without another word, he turns and trudges up the stairs.

Half an hour later, when he’s sure Lewis won’t stir, Valtteri stops pacing to hunt for his phone.

He finally finds it submerged in the sofa. He’s surprised it lights up, covered in fluff and crumbs, battery percentage a red sliver. He can’t remember the last time he charged it, too low-energy himself to feel up to the task. Now, Valtteri clasps the device like a lifeline.

But how to use it?

Should he Google Lewis? Check his Instagram comments? Text—or call—a mutual friend? No, no, and definitely not. Every option feels risky, indiscreet, the man’s sheer proximity like breath down his neck. If Valtteri were caught snooping, he’d never live it down.

Instead, he opens Twitter for the first time in days.

Whatever pops on his feed could be chalked up to simple coincidence. He can’t be blamed. Valtteri can’t tell if what’s happened is public knowledge or paddock knowledge—he just wants to know.

Turns out, he doesn’t even have to scroll.

#BREAKING: Formula One Racer Lewis Hamilton is Gay

Lewis Hamilton, 10-time F1 champ, comes out as gay

Sir Lewis Hamilton: ‘I’m proud to love who I am’ - BBC

The screen winks off as quickly as it woke. It’s dead.

Valtteri’s thumb hovers mid-tap where the last Tweet had been. His ears roar. The phone slips from his grasp and clatters face-down on the floor.

“Shit,” Valtteri mutters as he crouches. He hopes it didn’t rouse Lewis. He doesn’t know why his heart is pounding. He doesn’t feel differently about the man—for this, never—but his chest burns.

He picks up the phone. Double shit.

A web of fresh cracks spans mirrored glass. Valtteri’s reflection is fractured, yet multiplied, split into a million little pieces. He looks like a collage of himself. The effect sends chills down his spine.

He pockets the device to toss in some drawer, like everything else he tells himself he’ll fix. In truth, he never forgets about what’s broken, just becomes hell-bent on ignoring it.

Hardly out of sight, out of mind.

Valtteri’s mind drifts unbidden to a different drawer. His bedside table, just upstairs. He finds his thoughts float there often, especially on days like this, when his head’s underwater.

Not that he’s ever had a day quite like this.

But not today. He steels his jaw.

Today, somebody needs him—hopefully just not yet.

Valtteri watches the bottom of the stairs, but Lewis doesn’t emerge. That’s good. The champion is still asleep, then, all the world and all its vultures waiting outside these four walls.

His four walls, the Finn reminds himself. He exhales through his nose. What has he signed himself up for?

Oh, Lewis.

Lewis doesn’t come down for lunch—one-and-a-half tomato sandwiches on rye go into the trash—or tea—two cups of jasmine go down Valtteri’s throat.

By dusk, makeshift vegan hernekeitto on the back burner, Valtteri wonders if he’ll have a dinner guest at all. Is the man okay? Just as he considers a wellness check, there are footfalls on the steps.

Lewis descends, rumpled, rubbing his eyes like a child.

“Hello.” Valtteri takes stock of him as he stirs the pea soup. It’s done. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Lewis croaks.

He looks like hell, objectively, but he also looks rested. His undereyes are puffy, but no longer sunken. Little errant hairs wisp from his braids. His sleeve, still stained, now moves like it’s stiff. Hm. They’ll have to do laundry tonight.

Wait. Valtteri’s getting ahead of himself. He doubts the Brit will even stay for dinner.

“…Have you already called a car, or?”

“No.” Lewis tiptoes over to the stove, close enough that Valtteri can smell the sleep on him. His earrings jingle like windchimes. “Smells good.”

A rogue wave of affection rolls in the Finn’s gut. “Good.” He ladles out two piping bowls, then sets them on the table. “You can shower after we eat.”

“Hey!” The Brit wrinkles his nose. “You sayin’ I smell bad?”

“No,” Valtteri chuckles. The knot in his chest slips looser with every exchange. He decides to risk it. “Then, if you want, we can unpack your bags.” It’s breathy, too casual for what it implies.

“Yeah.” Lewis pulls out a chair. “Thanks, man.”

Valtteri can’t quite believe it. He stares into yellow-green broth. This feels like a play he didn’t learn his lines for—but somehow, he’s pulling it off.

“Hey, where’re your spoons?”

Oh. Right.

“Uh. Under the coffee pot.” Behind him, clunks and clanks.

“Whoa,” Lewis says, alarmed, and Valtteri spins. “What the hell happened to this phone?”

By midnight, Lewis is mostly moved in.

Every color of clothes fill the once-empty dresser; jars and bottles line the once-barren bathroom counter. The champion’s post-shower skincare routine is… intense. He unpacked with a blue-light mask on his face.

What doesn’t fit—surprisingly little—remains in its suitcase.

They don’t discuss sleeping arrangements. They don’t have to. Lewis, recharged by his mid-day slumber, is up for the night, while Valtteri practically collapses into bed.

“Sorry,” the blond mumbles, half-swallowed by the ocean of covers.

“Don’t be, man; you should sleep.” Lewis gathers the last of his things. “Thanks again for letting me crash here. I’ll try to be quiet.”

“Not just for that.” Valtteri’s drifting off, but can’t leave this unsaid. “For what I said earlier. I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Lewis flicks off the lights. “…Me too.”

Valtteri’s asleep before he hears the other leave.

There’s coffee waiting for him in the morning.

After lunch, Lewis wants to try the sauna.

Valtteri lights the wood before they change.

He dons swim trunks for the occasion, as he does in public saunas. They’re navy, plain. Lewis’s have flamingos on them. It’s an unexpected bit of whimsy.

The blond doesn’t miss how Lewis’s eyes linger on his ribs.

“Ready?” Valtteri asks, hand on the doorknob. It’s just above freezing outside, bright but windy. They’ll make a run for it.

Lewis takes a deep breath. “As I’ll ever be.”

Valtteri cracks the door, and they sprint. Lewis yelps and grabs his hand.

It takes ten seconds at most, but by the time they dive into the sauna, they’re both shaking. In Valtteri’s case, it’s not so much from cold as adrenaline, plus the strange, shivery joy of Lewis’s hand in his.

It’s warm.

On their left is a wood-burning stove beneath a panoramic window. The rest of the room is tiered seating, split-level. The whole interior is paneled in smooth, tan aspen.

“Okay. Sit here,” Valtteri pats the bottom bench.

Lewis does, his face tight.

Is he nervous? The blond hesitates, then shuts the door.

“So. This is the kiuas.” Valtteri taps the stove with the bowl of a long-handled ladle. It makes a hollow clang. “Some people have electric. Wood is best.”

From the bucket, he fills the scoop with water, then drizzles it onto the stovetop. Steam bouquets forth with a hiss.

“And that”—Valtteri raises his voice—“is löyly. It’s like…” He contemplates how to describe such an omnipresent concept. “The breath, the life force. Everybody has it. You and I. It’s that… thing.”

English fails him, but the Brit nods, rapt, like he understands. Perhaps he does.

The Finn, satisfied, steps up to the top bench and sits, Lewis still on the lower level. They look out the picture window ahead. The sky is ambiguous, horizon heavy with clouds.

They lapse into companionable silence, only broken when Lewis whispers: “Are we allowed to talk?” He wipes his brow.

Valtteri stifles a snort. “Yes, we can.”

“Oh, cool. Didn’t wanna disrespect the breath.”

“You won’t,” Valtteri reassures him.

“Um,” Lewis begins. His muscles, just starting to glisten, tense. “I wanted to tell you something.”

“Go ahead,” Valtteri says in what he hopes is an encouraging manner. He stares at a branch outside, which taps at the window periodically. Despite the season, it’s still green, laden with magenta berries.

“I’m… gay. Hope that’s okay.”

There it is.

Valtteri then realizes he should have rehearsed what to say. Instead, what pours out of his mouth is: “Yes. Good.” Panicked, he adds, “Thank you.”

Lewis swivels, scandalized. “You did know!”

“Not when you came,” Valtteri explains, palms raised in apology, “I promise. Only later.”

“Why? Was it something I did? Said?” The man wrings his hands.

“No, no, nothing like that.”

Lewis’s stress breaks his heart. Valtteri inhales the löyly deep.

“Well, I went on Twitter that day you showed up,” he confesses. “I didn’t search for anything, just saw some headlines. But I’m proud; I’m happy for you. No problems. As long as you’re alright, so am I.”

“Oh.” Lewis exhales and turns to face the view. The glossy contours of his back go lax. “Thanks,” he says. “That… means a lot.” If his voice wavers, Valtteri would never say.

They pass another silence, warmer in every way.

When they leave, the day is clear.

Lewis goes to bed after the sauna. He stirs when Valtteri’s putting on pajamas.

They’re like the sun and moon, the Finn thinks, always just missing each other.

For some reason, he can’t sleep.

Now, two seabirds caw at dawn.

At midday, the fire is dying.

“Ugh. Shouldn’t have read those articles, man.”

Lewis tosses his phone across the sofa with a groan. He digs the heels of his hands into weary eyelids.

“Just a bunch of straight white sport guys saying I’m brave or strong or inspirational. One even called me a trailblazer. Dunno why I hate that. But I do.”

Valtteri tends the fire. “Well, you are all of those things.”

Lewis flops face-down into the cushions and groans louder, guttural.

“I wasn’t finished,” Valtteri says gently. “You shouldn’t have to be.” He prods the largest, brightest log. It splinters into orange sparks.

Lewis sits up. “Damn right I shouldn’t.”

He punches a pillow. There’s no force behind it. Dust motes catch the light like falling snow.

“…But I do.” The champion slumps. “Or—am, or whatever. Because otherwise, I’ll always be the only one. Only Black F1 driver, only gay F1 driver—at least in a long time, and for a long time. And this is a brutal fuckin’ sport for people like me, and it’s gonna keep being brutal after I’m gone, and I hate it.”

Valtteri can’t relate, but he can empathize. It would be a lonely life, isolating, exposed like a pinned butterfly. A chill zips through him, even by the fireside. He shuts the glass hatch with a clank.

Lewis sighs. “Sorry.”

“No, please. Keep going.” He turns to give the seated man his full attention.

“It’s like…” Lewis hugs the pillow to his middle. “It’s like, I’m holding this door open, right? And I see people coming, I think, but it’s getting so damn heavy. But someone has to hold it.”

“Hm.” Valtteri strolls over to perch on the arm of the sofa. “Can I help you hold it?”

Lewis is silent for a moment. “No,” he answers honestly. “I don’t think so. But… it’s not as heavy when I’m here.”

Valtteri warms to the bone. “So stay,” he says. “As long as you need. Or want,” he adds.

An idea comes to him, then, one tiny way to make it lighter. It scares him, but that’s how he knows it’s right. Valtteri vows to bring it up later.

Lewis’s hand finds his. “Thank you, Val.”

“Thank you, Lewis. For everything.”

Brown eyes seem to twinkle with mirth.

“…What?” Valtteri squirms, self-conscious.

Lewis shakes his head. “Nothing.”

The hearth crackles.

It’s the first night they lay side-by-side to fall asleep.

Lewis falls first.

Lulled by his rhythmic breaths, Valtteri finally follows.

Lewis sits in the living room, reading.

Valtteri stands in the kitchen, breathing.

The Finn is a tangle of nerves. Not even the sound of flipping pages soothes him like usual. He plucks up one fiber of courage and rounds the corner.

“Lewis,” he blurts. “Can I ask you something?”

“Jeez, Val, you startled me.” Lewis sets the book spine-up on the coffee table. “Yeah, what’s up?”

Ordinarily, Valtteri wouldn’t mind, except it’s his coffee table book—a collection of Pentti Sammallahti prints—on his coffee table—which he knows isn’t clean right now, because he cleans it—and that frays his nerves further.

“Erm, sorry, could you just…” he gestures.

“Oops. My bad.” Lewis closes the tome with a decisive thump. “Some nice photos in there, man.”

“Thanks,” Valtteri exhales. He shifts his weight from leg to leg, gnawing on a hangnail.

Lewis raises his brows expectantly.

Well. Nothing left to do but ask. The trouble is, Valtteri doesn’t know what he should ask, or how he should ask it, though he knows the rough shape of the matter. How did you know you were—? or How do I know if I’m—? or Lewis, I think I like—.

The last option’s not even a question.

His mouth decides for him. “Why did you do it?”

“What?” Lewis tilts his head. “…Come out?”

“Yes. That.”

“Hmm. That’s a big question.” Lewis half-laughs. “Lemme think. And sit down, will you? You’re stressing me out.”

Valtteri sits across from the Brit. The sofa dips, balancing like scales.

“ Well,” Lewis says. “The short answer is that I wanted to live my truth. The long answer is that I wanted people like me to see me living my truth, so they’d know it was okay, that they weren’t… wrong or broken or hopeless, whether they could come out or not. That there was… something more.”

“Yes,” Valtteri says, “but it put you through a lot. I don’t understand why you would risk it. You already have everything.”

“I thought so too.”

“What do you mean?”

Valtteri doesn’t understand how such a thing could be worth it—the media frenzy, the sleepless nights, the flood of speculation. He’s surprised reporters haven’t showed up at his door yet with bloodhounds. He pictures sharks circling in dark water.

Lewis picks at a pillow’s stray thread. “Some things are worth it. Like love. Always love.”

Valtteri’s tongue has gone fuzzy. “Sometimes I feel like you’re reading my mind,” he confesses.

He doesn’t mean to say it aloud. He doesn’t mean to do a lot of things he does around the man. It’s like swimming in a riptide.

Lewis smiles in understanding. “Sometimes I think so too.”

In an electric instant, Valtteri swears the older man sees him to the bone.

Then, Lewis picks up the photo book again, and the moment snaps.

“So let’s not talk,” he continues. “Let’s just sit.”

So they do.

The hour is very late, or very early.

The bedroom is indigo pitch.

“Lewis?”

“Yeah?”

“I think I might be gay.”

“…Yeah. I figured you knew.”

“You could have told me.”

“Hehe. Sorry. Proud of you, though.”

“Thanks. Can we talk more tomorrow?”

“Of course. Sleep tight, Val.”

“…Good night, Lewis.”

Sleep comes easy as the tide.

This time, Lewis’s trunks have bulldogs on them.

In the kitchen, Valtteri brandishes two juniper-branch whisks, silvered with water.

“I forgot to bring these last time,” he explains as they prepare to saunoa. “By the time I remembered, I wasn’t getting out.”

Lewis squints. “What… do you do with them?”

“You just—” Valtteri thwacks his own arms and back to demonstrate. “See? It hurts when the skin’s dry, though. And you’re supposed to warm it up.”

Lewis gawks. “Holy shit. It was as kinky as I thought.”

Valtteri flings it, pelting him with cold droplets.

Lewis flinches. “Agh! Kidding, kidding.”

“Now that’s disrespecting the sauna.”

They don’t bring it up again until they’re safely ensconced, bathed in löyly.

Valtteri’s cranked it high today. He whips pale limbs with his juniper whisk.

Lewis twirls his between his palms. “Nah, I still think you’re fuckin’ with me. Is this a segue into our”—he lowers his voice to a mock-seductive murmur—“sexuality talk?”

If looks could kill, Lewis would be on life support.

“It is not.” Valtteri sucks his teeth. “But fine. Let’s talk about it.”

“If it’s okay to ask,” Lewis prefaces, “is that why you and Tiffany split?”

“Oh. Erm…” Foolishly, he hadn’t anticipated the question. “No. I don’t think so. I don’t think I even knew until recently.”

The divorce had been precipitated by other factors. Broadest among them was the gulf between ideal and reality. When Valtteri retired, both he and Tiffany believed being together 24/7 would only strengthen their bond, like it had on breaks. But everyday life proved rough water to navigate, and they decided it was best to separate.

But Lewis doesn’t need to know all that.

Thankfully, he seems distracted.

“Huh. So when did you realize you were gay?”

Damn. Valtteri speeds up his whisking. “Next question?”

“No no, wait.” A salacious grin unfurls across Lewis’s face. “If not before, then when? What—or who—was your awakening?”

The man scrambles up to the higher bench, and Valtteri grabs his arms in alarm. His hands slide right off. That shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

“It’s really hot up here, Lewis,” he cautions. “You should stay down there.”

“Yeah, I know it’s hot; I’m here.” The champion jokingly preens. He knows. He has to know.

“Seriously, Lewis; I don’t want you passing out,” the blond says, his own head spinning. “You’re too sweaty already.”

“It’s all real, too. I am a high-performance athlete, Val.”

“Oh my god. Shut up.” Valtteri groans at the callback. The timing is terrible. Everything’s terrible. He’s suffocating.

Lewis bounces his knees. He won’t let this go.

“Have you slept with a guy? Sorry, that’s probably too personal,” the Brit babbles. “But if you didn’t know until after Tiffany, but you know now, and you’ve basically been a social recluse since the divorce—no offense—that would mean…”

His pupils blow wide with realization.

“…Oh.”

Valtteri slinks to the lower level and tries not to die.

Lewis trails behind him, meek. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have pried.”

“Please shut the fuck up.” He moves to throw more water on the stove, but there is none. Great.

Lewis obliges, at least for the moment.

Valtteri sinks his head in his hands.

Minutes pass. The haze dissipates.

“…Hey, I wasn’t trying to be weird with you, just then,” Lewis eventually says. “I’m really sorry if I crossed a line. I didn’t know you were talking about… well. I’m thick sometimes, but I’m not a creep. At least, I try not to be.”

It’s the hottest thing he’s said all day.

“You’re not,” Valtteri assures him, finger-raking his wet waves. “A creep, that is. I’m just… embarrassed.”

Lewis, bless him, has the decency to look confused. “Why?”

So he is thick after all. “…Because you’re my friend, and I just accidentally revealed that you were my gay—what did you call it? Awakening?”

“So we are friends after all?”

“…What is wrong with you, Lewis?”

“I’m trying to see if I totally blew my shot here.”

The sauna keels. Valtteri struggles to keep upright.

“…What? If you’re joking, Lewis, I swear—”

“God’s sake, Val, can I kiss you or not?”

Valtteri’s answer comes as action.

Lewis, as ever, meets him halfway.

Lips open the door for tongues to enter. They make themselves at home right away, plundering each other’s deepest corners. Lewis laps at the roof of Valtteri’s mouth, rewarded with a full-body shiver.

The champion grazes knuckles up the back of the blond’s arms, then tangles fingers in his hair. Valtteri lets out a noise he’s never heard himself make. He could swear steam’s refilled the room.

The wave breaks. They pant into each other’s open mouths.

Lewis beams toothily. “Holy shit. Yeah, I am gonna pass out. Sorry.”

He jokingly flops on the floor beside Valtteri, ignoring the other man’s squawk of protest.

It’s only when the Finn threatens to lug him outside that Lewis rouses.

“Oh, Val, you would not believe the dream I just had.”

Valtteri smacks his ass with a whisk.

One morning, while Lewis sleeps, Valtteri takes his coffee on the dock. The lake’s socked in with cottony fog. It feels as if he’s still in bed. For several blessed minutes, nothing happens.

Then, wings swoop his swimming hole. A pelican.

It alights on the ice, white on white, scarcely visible save for its bill. Caution-tape yellow. Skin-on-skin smacks. Its pouch thrashes with a catch, desperate and alive.

Valtteri goes back inside. He’s seen this enough times to know how it ends.

Lewis is awake, and he has questions.

“Why’s there a gun in your nightstand?” he asks from the stairs. Backlit and white-shirted, he glows like a ghost, fringed with wild light.

Valtteri supposes it was only a matter of time. Still, his pulse quickens.

He sets his mug down with a clink on the counter, considers it, picks it up again. “Why were you looking in my nightstand?”

“No. You first.” A studded nostril glints.

“What?”

“I asked you first.” Lewis crosses his arms. “Why d’you have a gun?”

“I’ve had it since the military. It’s for… protection.” He omits the personal; it’s for Lewis now, too, as it was for his lovers, once. “To be safe.” The Finn pinches the bridge of his nose. A headache threatens, despite the caffeine. He turns away to brew another cup. “Don’t you want me to be safe?”

It’s manipulative, a conversation-killer, and Valtteri knows it. Guilt gnaws at his gut as he measures fragrant grounds, pours them into metal mesh.

The response takes so long, he assumes Lewis has left.

“I do.” It’s quiet—pleading, even.

Valtteri bites his bottom lip until it bleeds.

When the coffee’s done, the steps are empty.

Lewis’s chin rests on Valtteri’s chest.

“I don’t like that you have a gun.”

It’s a hell of a topic to broach in bed.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“In your bedroom, Val?”

“Where else should I keep it?”

“Nowhere. That’s the point.”

“…Ah.”

“It scares me, even though I trust you.”

“Lewis, I would never hurt you.”

“I know that. Didn’t I just say I trust you?”

“Right. Well. I need to be able to protect us.”

“I get that. But it doesn’t scare me for me.”

“Keeping you safe is all that matters.”

“And you!”

“Well, yes.”

“So get rid of it. I don’t like it. I don’t like thinking of you thinking of it when you’re alone.”

It strikes a nerve in Valtteri, dead-on. He gapes at the face above his sternum. How did Lewis…

“Been there.”

A hot knife guts him like a fish. “Okay.”

“Wait, really?”

“Really,” Valtteri affirms, sober. “Not right now, but I will. I have friends who could use it—hunters and such—so I’ll bring it to one of them after the holidays, though of course we’ll have to notif—”

That’s all it takes, apparently.

Lewis seizes the blond’s face in his hands and kisses him hard, open-mouthed from the start.

Valtteri licks into it like a man starved, relishing how Lewis writhes against him. His skin sings with friction. Their hips go flush. He bucks up and Lewis mewls.

They’re really doing this.

Heat coils below Valtteri’s navel as teeth nip at his lip.

Then, there’s a sharp sting, and he breaks away with a hiss.

“What? What’s wrong?” Lewis smooths stubbly cheeks with thumbs. Umber eyes widen. “Shit, Val, you’re bleeding.”

Valtteri figured as much. Just his luck. He thunks his skull against the headboard once, twice.

“Oi, stop that,” the Brit chides.

Deft fingers use the Finn’s own t-shirt to dab at his lip. Lavender cotton comes back scarlet.

“Oh no. We should, uh, throw this in the wash.” Lewis has also gone red. “Shouldn’t let a stain sit overnight, haha.” He plucks at the hem. “Can I… take this off?”

A beat. Lewis withers under Valtteri’s incredulous gaze.

“Are you serious? You could have asked me that without…” Valtteri thunks his head again with an open-mouthed, humorless laugh.

“Sorry,” says Lewis, who doesn’t look very sorry at all.

His eyes, darker than ever, are fixed on Valtteri’s mouth. He traces its gape with a finger, tutting when he comes to the wound.

“You should rest that,” he says lowly. “Let me make it up to you?”

And oh, there’s an idea. Valtteri takes off his own shirt faster than he ever has, one-handed, flinging it into a corner.

“I need words, Val.”

“Please,” he rasps, ruined.

Lips are on his jaw the next second.

He’s back at a hundred embarrassingly fast.

Things travel down and down until they don’t.

Lewis stops at the border of Valtteri’s boxers. The moment teeters on the edge of a knife. Teeth graze a white belly, sharp on soft, slick on dry.

Valtteri feels flayed, every inch of him exposed, held open.

“I need you,” Lewis pants, ragged, “to tell me you want this.”

“Y-yes, I—yes,” Valtteri breathes like a prayer. “Lewis—oh. Yes.”

“No,” Valtteri says into his mug.

Lewis is trying to feed him—trying being the operative word.

He’s tried it before, each attempt almost painfully unsubtle. Today’s comes in the form of a challenge. It’s eight in the morning.

“Ah, c’mon, man. Scared I’ll catch more than you?” Lewis taunts. “I’ve got a skilled mouth, y’know!”

A mini marshmallow hits Valtteri on the forehead. He ignores the blow. “You do,” he concedes. “But marshmallows aren’t even vegan, Lewis.” He takes his coffee into the next room.

A squawk of disbelief. “Wait, they’re not?”

Lewis has started peeking out the bathroom door before he showers.

Valtteri, assuming this to be a nervous habit, always gives him a reassuring nod. Sometimes he adds a thumbs-up. He doesn’t understand the pause that follows.

The third time, Lewis drops his towel, and Valtteri gets the hint.

He makes a mental note to buy new shower shelves.

“No! What’re you doing?” Lewis exclaims, one leg out of the shower.

He hops and hops and almost falls, but Valtteri steadies him by the elbow, nearly nicking himself in the process.

“Erm. Shaving?” The blond raises his razor. “Is that a trick question?”

He readjusts the fluffy, plum-colored towel around his waist as Lewis grabs his own. They’re Lewis’s, Egyptian cotton, and Valtteri must admit, the Brit’s got taste in home textiles.

“Well, don’t,” the driver whines. “I love your scruff.”

The word love tumbling so easily from Lewis’s mouth—in any context related to Valtteri—gives the Finn a curious tingle he’s not quite ready to name.

Valtteri watches the man’s reflection pout. “I thought it gave you a rash? On your—”

“Nope. Dunno what you’re talking about,” Lewis interrupts with a huff.

Valtteri blinks. Their eyes meet in the mirror. There’s a pause.

“…Maybe just leave the mustache.”

“Good thing you’re not still living in that cabin up north,” Lewis comments, curled at the foot of the bed like a cat. He’s on his phone, scrolling through Valtteri’s Instagram, while the Finn himself browses the newspaper.

The blond flinches at the mention of Lapland, of the home he and Tiffany had built to last. He hopes Lewis didn’t see the slip. “Why is that?” The question cracks, betraying his feigned nonchalance. Damn.

Valtteri clears his throat and peers over the obituaries. He prays the pages mask his hot cheeks so Lewis doesn’t get any ideas. He hasn’t felt well all day.

The Brit, unfazed, plops his phone face-up on the bed and lists the reasons on his fingers. “Would’ve been harder to get to you, for one thing. Don’t think they do Uber Black up there.” The corner of his mouth quirks. “But also, the neighbors. I remember they lived so close, man.”

He had visited the cabin once, shortly after construction, to catch up over coffee and gin. Indeed, it became the talk of the village.

“You didn’t have”—Lewis waves vaguely, as if shooing a fly—“all this fuckin’ land, these big trees. And those glass walls? No privacy. Would’ve been a nightmare.”

Fine. He’ll bite.

Valtteri folds the paper with a sigh and sets it on his bedside table, followed by his reading glasses. Clammy fingers leave sweat-smears. He studies cracked knuckles, spiderwebbed red from exposure. “Why would that be a nightmare?”

The retired racer resents the implication. He’s not hiding on purpose. The subject is fragile, thin ice on deep water, and he won’t be the one to breach it. He feels dark eyes bore into him.

Lewis holds his stare for a long moment. “Think about it, Val. It was public knowledge that you only had one bed. And if I turned up after—” He breaks off.

An even longer pause elapses before he resumes, barely louder than a whisper. “People might’ve gotten the wrong idea. About… this.”

Valtteri still can’t meet his gaze. The room spins. “Would it be wrong?”

Lewis sits up with a noise like he’s been punched.

Valtteri, surprised, clenches his fist. From the deepest split, a line of blood wells to the surface. He closes his eyes to nurse the cut, a metallic tang. The bed shifts. Swift footsteps retreat. Shit.

Why did he ask that? What did he even mean—more importantly, what did Lewis think he meant? Did he downplay the difficulty of coming out? What did he imply about “this,” people’s assumptions, Lewis’s intentions? Does he think Lewis engineered this? No, of course he doesn’t. He had meant to say “this,” whatever it is, wasn’t—isn’t—wrong.

Valtteri’s head throbs. He swings his legs to the edge of the bed. His feet don’t quite touch the floor. Against the navy rug, it appears he’s suspended over the sea, about to fall in. His stomach roils.

Then, something light hits the back of his head.

Valtteri grasps for the offender. It crinkles, nestled in messy waves. Oh. A bandage. He clumsily unwraps it and applies it to the wound.

When he turns, the bathroom door is ajar, but nobody is there.

Valtteri spends the evening in front of the toilet. Warm light fades to cool light fades to none.

It’s then that Lewis crouches beside him with a damp rag and a back rub. Apologies overlap and crash until Valtteri’s overcome once more.

Luckily, the porcelain provides a smooth shore.

“I know, Val,” Lewis murmurs as the other shakes apart. “Let it out. S’okay. I know.”

The next night, it’s Lewis who comes undone, spine arched off the mattress, soft cries on his lips. Like that, he unravels in waves. Valtteri works him through the tremors until they’re both spent.

After, the Finn dreams of an island amidst arctic surf, a shipwreck, a sailor with a familiar face. By starlight, they chart each other’s bodies.

When he wakes, the north star is just the sun. Dawn slips through the fingers of branches. Steady breaths lap at his nape.

Somehow, the dream persists.

After dinner, Lewis takes down his braids. He’s sitting in front of the bed, legs crossed, tail end of the blankets draped around him like a cape. A purple spray bottle rests between bare feet.

There’s a football match on TV, scoreless.

Valtteri soaks in the scene from the top of the stairs, holding a bowl of blood orange slices, skinlike membranes removed. Lewis doesn’t like that part. He shifts, and the small silver fork tinks against china.

“Oh. Hi.” Lewis waves with the hand not occupied with a comb. He shrugs. “Figure I won’t be getting these redone anytime soon.” His fingers dip into a shallow, slick pot, then return to his locks.

Valtteri shuffles over to sit by Lewis’s side. The older man scoots over. The younger spears a slice and offers it to grinning lips, which open, then close around the fork.

“Such service,” Lewis mumbles through a mouthful of citrus. He kisses Valtteri on the cheek. It tingles. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” Valtteri responds, hushed by the other’s trust.

They watch the action for a while, awash in the green of the pitch.

Then, Lewis lowers toned arms with a flinch.

Valtteri feels more than sees it. “Are you okay?”

“Hm? Yeah. My muscles always kill after the season. Just need a little break.”

“I could take over,” Valtteri offers automatically, then flushes. Lewis probably doesn’t want anyone else messing with his hair, especially someone who’s never done this before.

But, to his surprise, Lewis says, “Ugh, please. If you don’t mind,” and shoves him the bottle, pot, and comb. Well.

Valtteri moves with more confidence than he has, standing to swing a leg over Lewis, then settling on the edge of the bed, the other’s head between his knees.

From there, it’s somewhat intuitive, though he goes much slower than Lewis had and uses much more detangler. It smells of violets. He hopes he’s not wasting the product.

“You still okay?” Valtteri’s compelled to check. “This doesn’t hurt?”

“It feels so good,” Lewis moans, then yawns. “Mm. Thanks, Val.” He stretches, quaking, and moans again. Secondhand quivers tickle Valtteri’s thighs.

The Finn, brain suddenly scrambled, tries to focus on the task at hand.

Then, a different hand pops into view, bearing a forkful of ruby fruit.

“Aren’t you supposed to be resting your arms?” Valtteri grumbles. Still, he accepts what he’s given. Juice bursts, bright and tangy, on his tongue.

The game goes on. For every segment Lewis eats, he feeds Valtteri two. The blond chews and swallows and doesn’t protest, though he gets the sense this part may have been planned.

Post-halftime, the delivery slows to a stop.

Lewis’s head lays against Valtteri’s left leg. Valtteri works out the final braid above Lewis’s right ear, the rest of his curls loose, perfumed, and probably over-moisturized. There is a soft snoring. A spot of wet heat spreads by Valtteri’s knee.

Slowly, he sets down the comb. Valtteri sits stock-still until Lewis stirs, apologetic but thrilled with the job. Valtteri thanks him in return.

The match ends in a draw.

“I love that sound, man.” Lewis sighs as Valtteri throws the last of their water on the stove. Löyly hisses and expands to fill the sauna. It intertwines like fingers, or tongues.

They’re both nude. No need for pretense now.

The blond chortles. “Congratulations, you’re an honorary Finn now.” He taps his companion’s shoulders, one after the other, with the ladle’s long handle, then lays the scoop by the empty bucket.

“All the sounds,” the Brit continues, unfazed by the parody of his knighthood, which already feels like a lifetime ago. “This”—he gestures to the sizzling steam—“and that”—the roaring belly of the wood stove—“and those”—dual juniper fronds, ordinarily thwack-thwacking, now half-forgotten on the floor. “It’s like… rain, or wind. Or music.”

“Hm.” Sweat collects, dew-like, on Valtteri’s mustache. “You should make some with it, one day.”

“Maybe.” The part-time musician fidgets. He hasn’t released a song in years.

Lewis gazes out the window at the blank page of sky, the vacant table of the lake. “Do you ever think about how easy it would be to just… leave? Just start over.” He motions to the ice. “I mean, you could literally just, like, walk across this and go anywhere.”

“You could,” the Finn agrees, “in theory.” On the bench, their pinkies brush.

“Anywhere,” Lewis repeats, stuck on the notion. “We could go anywhere.” He loops his finger snug around the other’s.

The subtle shift is not lost on Valtteri. He squeezes. “We could.” The sentence ends there.

They stay until inside is tepid and outside has turned off its lights.

One black night, they stand at the lip of the ice, wrapped in nothing but long coats.

“It’s tradition, right?” Lewis quakes, but holds fast, unafraid. “Let’s do it, then.”

He tolerates the dip remarkably well. Valtteri surfaces first.

Later, in a warmer dark, they dive into each other.

They don’t emerge.

They turn off notifications.

They let the dishes pile up like snowdrifts.

Valtteri wakes to a shout of his name.

He shoots upright, on his feet before the sound stops ringing. A scattershot of stars obscure his vision. He blinks, rapid-fire.

The room is near-black, save for a sea-floor glow from the windows. In that greenish light, he sees it—Lewis is gone. Their bed is empty, covers rumpled. Valtteri’s pulse spikes.

“Lewis?” Valtteri’s voice comes as a croak, sleep-worn and fear-choked. He swallows. “Lewis?” he yells. No response. An uneasy silence stretches, threatening to snap.

Then, a crash. Downstairs, glass shatters and someone—Lewis—screams.

Valtteri moves.

He flings open his nightstand drawer and grabs the gun. He shoves it into his briefs, safety training be damned, already out the bedroom door and halfway down the steps.

His socked footfalls are silent. The quiet is agony. All Valtteri can hear is his own racing heart, his ragged breaths.

He skids to the bottom of the stairs and presses his bare back to the wall. It’s cold. He suppresses a shudder. He considers calling for Lewis again, but doesn’t dare, in case of an intruder.

If someone hurt Lewis, or worse… Well. Even in his military days, Valtteri never felt certain he could take a person’s life. Now he’s sure.

He squints into the pitch dark, eyes still adjusting, and tries not to think about death.

No. Somebody’s in the kitchen. The shade is up, and framed in silhouette is a set of squared shoulders. Mercifully, they seem to be peering into the yard. Wait. Are there more people outside?

Valtteri presses a hesitant palm to the pistol at his hip. He creeps toward the figure.

He’s nearly at the maw of the kitchen when his foot collides with something. Thud.

Fuck. Valtteri freezes. Why did Lewis leave things lying around?

The person snaps their head to the side and Valtteri’s heart stops. That profile—wait.

“Lewis,” Valtteri breathes. He sags and slides the gun behind his back. The enormity of what could have been floors him, dizzies him, and Valtteri decides in that instant what he must do. “A-are you alright?”

“Sorry, Val,” Lewis says with a yawn. “Yeah, all good.”

Valtteri has never heard a more welcome voice. He’s struck by the urge to cry—or scream himself—but he shakes his head. He needs to see Lewis, really see him. He feels along the wall. Click.

They both wince at the flood of brightness.

Lewis, too, is only in his underwear. His hair is pulled back in a low, loose bun. Tattoos flex and crease as he leans against the sink to rub his eyes. “I’m so sorry, man,” Lewis begins, “I was just—”

Valtteri’s across the tile in three strides.

The blond takes Lewis’s hot, bearded jaw in both hands and meets his startled gaze. “Don’t—” Valtteri breaks off with a huff. “You’re sure you’re alright?” A fast pulse butterflies beneath his fingers.

Lewis blinks, then throws his head back in laughter. Fine lines whisker his temples. His hehes peter out into chuckles, ticklish warmth against Valtteri’s wrists.

“Ah jeez,” Lewis wheezes, “Thought you were miffed at me then.”

Heat blossoms in Valtteri’s cheeks. “Oh. Never.” After a second’s deliberation, he drops his hands. “Sorry. That was… intense.”

“It was.” Lewis smirks and raises a brow. “I kinda liked it.”

Bronze biceps rise to rest on snowy shoulders. Slowly, Lewis tightens the loop until they press against Valtteri’s ears, blotting out all sound except the shared thrum of their heartbeats. Their breaths tangle.

As their lips brush, then lock, Valtteri thinks nothing could matter more than this.

His mouth moves to Lewis’s neck, which tastes of salt and clean musk, and sucks right where the older man likes it. Lewis lets out a whine. The younger grasps his waist, rewarded with a gasp. Then, another, this one more urgent, and Lewis grabs Valtteri’s forearms.

“What?” Valtteri pulls away, frantically searching Lewis’s face.

“Your hands are fucking freezing.”

Valtteri groans and exhales a Finnish curse.

Lewis reels him in to pepper his face with penitent kisses, concluding with a smooch on the nose. “I’m sorry,” he says, pressing their foreheads together. “I keep scaring you tonight.”

Valtteri steps back and waves him off, but the champion is not so easily deterred.

Lewis studies the blond’s expression. “Are you okay, Val?”

Valtteri swallows. “Thought someone was in the house. Thought…” He trails off. Metal hangs heavy at the hollow of his spine, skin-warm now, yet scalding. He can’t get rid of it quickly enough.

“Shit. I’m so, so sorry.” The ridge between Lewis’s brows deepens.

“No. Don’t be,” Valtteri says, and means it. “And stop apologizing. You didn’t mean to.”

“Yeah.” Lewis’s mouth is set off-kilter, brown eyes now refusing to acknowledge gray. Red splotches confetti his upper body, not just of Valtteri’s doing.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s embarrassing. Can we go back to kissing?”

“No.”

It’s Lewis’s turn to groan. “Fine. Just… Here’s what happened.” He looks down.

Valtteri does too, to alleviate the pressure. He takes tattooed hands in his own, thumbs tracing the lines he knows with his eyes closed, and waits.

“I was getting a glass of water,” Lewis says. “I, uh, looked out the window, and saw something I wanted to show you. …Guess I got a little too excited.”

Valtteri hums. His gut flip-flops at the disclosure.

“So I called you. Wasn’t thinking. Probably woke you up then, didn’t I?”

Valtteri hums again, an affirmative, thumbs stroking firmer in reassurance.

“Ugh, sorry. Wait, no apologies. Anyway.” Lewis clears his throat. “Y’know your blinds are a bit shit, right?”

Valtteri can’t keep the amusement out of this hum.

“Yeah. About that.” Lewis steps to the side.

Valtteri glances up.

His kitchen-window shade lies in the sink, rod and all, littered with smashed glass and ceramic. Jagged edges glint. Shards of blue.

Valtteri’s stomach sinks. “Oh god,” he says. Lewis tenses in his periphery. “You’re not hurt, are you? Tell me you didn’t touch anything.”

Lewis stammers out a laugh. “I can’t believe you, man.”

Valtteri’s brows knit.

“I broke your little curtain-thing and, like, all of the dishes, but your first concern is me?”

“Yes?” Valtteri doesn’t understand the question, how there could be any other answer. That’s his only concern. He isn’t hard-up for money, and everything can be replaced, everything except—

Lewis is pressed to his chest, face buried in Valtteri’s shoulder. It’s wet. “I think I love you,” he says, muffled and shaky, and Valtteri forgets how to blink. Oh. “Nah, I don’t just think so.”

He draws back, jaw hardened with resolve, and a decade collapses like gravity, and cameras flash as Lewis Hamilton shakes his new teammate’s hand, pulling him in with a blinding smile, and a small star winks to life, and time expands as the planets align, and Valtteri Bottas sees the path to his future. Oh.

“I love y—”

Valtteri crashes his mouth into Lewis’s. All the air has left the room, yet they burn, white-hot bodies colliding into one.

He can’t say how much time passes before they part. He’s not sure they truly do. They’re panting. Both of their faces glisten like stardust.

“I’ve always loved you,” Valtteri gasps, knowing it to be true, “if you couldn’t tell.”

Lewis’s tears devolve into giggles. “Fuckin’ hell, man. Me too. Ugh.”

He wipes his nose with the back of a hand and grimaces at what he finds. He turns and rifles through several drawers, finally procuring a tea towel. It’s pink.

Lewis dries his face with it, then offers the damp cloth to Valtteri, who gingerly accepts and dabs his own. Somehow this feels more intimate than anything they’ve done.

“Wait.” Recollection strikes the Finn. “What did you want to show me?”

Lewis grins.

They’re in bathrobes and snow boots when they stumble out the back door, a compromise between Valtteri’s We have to get dressed, Lewis, and Lewis’s Hurry, man; we’re gonna miss it! The latter leads the way with Valtteri in tow.

The deck is blanketed in fresh bluish white, silent and deep as an unspoken vow. Despite the late hour, there is a radiance.

“D-don’t look up y-yet!” Lewis commands, and Valtteri swears he can hear the Brit’s teeth chatter, even over the crackle of their footsteps.

“Aye aye, captain.” Affection spills, honeyed, into Valtteri’s tone. It’s become clear what Lewis wants to show him. Nevertheless, he obeys, locking his gaze on the fresh tracks he follows.

They walk for no more than 20 seconds before Lewis stops.

Valtteri bumps him from behind and mutters an apology. He gets a gentle elbow to the ribs. Stare still fixed on the shimmering ground, the Finn asks, “Can I look now?”

“G-go ahead.”

So Valtteri does.

They’re standing on the dock, at the edge of everything. Past the lake and trees and hills, green and violet gleam. Aurora borealis ripples across a wash of familiar stars.

Valtteri has seen the northern lights, of course, had seen them almost every night in Lapland, but never this vibrant this far south. He tilts his head to say so, and oh—that’s what’s different.

Lewis’s eyes brim with unshed tears, alight with brilliant color, and Valtteri feels his own prickle. That’s what he’s been missing all along.

“I love you,” he says instead, because it’s all Valtteri has to say, and because he’s already sure he’ll never tire of saying it to Lewis. He’s certain of many things, lately.

Lewis sob-coughs, producing a plume of mist. “Love you t-too.” He sniffles. “Ah, shit. I’m g-gonna run inside and g-get some tissues. And my phone, for p-pictures.”

“And a coat,” Valtteri adds, rubbing his partner’s upper arms. “I won’t have you getting sick.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Lewis lightly cuffs Valtteri’s shoulder. “B-be right back.”

Valtteri appraises the view. It’s not quite the same outside Lewis’s eyes. From behind him comes crunches, a creak, then a slam, and he’s briefly alone. Good. There’s something he needs to do, not a second too soon.

The man sits on the lip of the dock, straightens his legs, and pushes off. He lands on white-flocked ice with a gritty thud. Two meters ahead is their swimming hole, a blank photo frame.

Valtteri approaches the void. Already, a pale shell has formed, though the pair just dipped in it last night. He pokes it with the toe of a boot. The shattering is softer than expected.

With a frigid hand, he withdraws the pistol from his briefs. He is surprised to feel nothing—nothing at all—as he regards it. He lets his grip go slack. The gun slips from his fingers into the black with a plop.

Only then do Valtteri’s tears fall, warm and unbidden as summer rain. Relief floods his body. He looks ahead and weeps, breathless, beneath an unfurling sky. The horizon flares even brighter. He’s alive, alive and loved and loving, and so is—

“What are you doing, Val?” Lewis calls. Valtteri whips around, scrubbing his cheeks with a fleecy sleeve.

Lewis stands on the dock in Valtteri’s puffiest parka. It’s reflective, and he beams like a sunstruck cloud. “Hey, don’t you jump in there right now! I don’t care if it’s tradition. C’mere!”

So Valtteri does.

He jogs to the base of the dock and reaches up, intending to help Lewis down. Instead, the older man wrenches him upward and closes the coat around them both. Well. Valtteri can’t complain about that .

They share each other’s heat for a minute, breathing hard.

“Thank you.” Lewis shivers into his neck. “I love you. So much. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

Oh. Lewis knows. Another wave of relief, even headier, courses through Valtteri’s veins, and he surrenders to it with a sob. All he can do is nod and hold his lover closer.

When they part, Lewis digs in his pocket and pulls out his phone. It wakes automatically, bathing brown skin in a rosy glow. A toothy smile blooms. “Ah, no way, man.”

“What?”

Lewis tips the screen toward Valtteri.

The photo is old—Lewis, himself, and a wrinkly Roscoe in Mercedes hospitality—and the ex-racer melts at the revelation that Lewis has kept it all these years. It’s 00:01. Smaller text above the time reads Friday, 25 December.

Valtteri jolts. “Oh.”

“Merry Christmas, Val,” Lewis whispers. “Best one I’ve had.”

“Really? This early?” Valtteri thumbs his nose, sheepish. “That’s… difficult to believe.”

“Mm. That’s okay. Got lots of time to prove it.” Lewis leans in for a kiss, readily reciprocated. “But first—” The Brit turns to angle his front camera for a selfie, aurora agleam in the distance. “I gotta get this. Should probably post something, too. Season’s greetings.”

“More like proof of life,” Valtteri says, half-serious. “...Did anyone know where you were all this time, Lewis?”

“Everyone who needed to.”

Validation lodges, hot, behind Valtteri’s breastbone.

Still, Lewis hesitates. His arm falters, then drops. He eyes his partner, whose breath catches.

The air between them trembles with the weight of what’s unasked. For all their collective layers, it feels like they’re both naked, at once older and younger than they’ve ever been together. The magic flickers.

It’s Lewis who extends a hand, the whole, luminous world waiting in the other. “Would you… come here?” A question, this time, but it’s not.

There’s only ever been one answer.

So Valtteri does.