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… and I… I-I, Nico thinks, the tip of his tongue wet on his bottom lip, forehead pressed against the sharp point and curve of Lewis’ collarbone, hands spread out across the dark, dark, dark of Lewis’ skin, there, and there, fingers spread to touch as many places as possible. To have ten and two and one and a hundred places of contact. Of touch. Don’t think you can’t, he thinks, and surges forward, presses his mouth there too, blindly and hoping and waiting, and Lewis’ fingers wrap around the back of his neck, I don’t.
He's gotten careless. His hair is getting too long and there’s dark circles under his eyes, sweat gathered in the hollow small of his back, his fingertips smooth and vaguely sticky with a faint smell of gasoline… And, “Shhhh,” Lewis whispers, hisses against his temple where his hair is damp and sticking to him, “shhhh, shhhh, shhhh,” Lewis says, a smooth, soothing sibilant shushing, and oh, oh god, he’s too much alliteration, he’s losing his meaning and silencing words Nico’s never even begun to say by stealing them from Nico’s mouth with his tongue.
Lewis’ palm is hot, steady at the boyish, bony curve of Nico’s hip, fingers tight together and curled in. It’s dark here, and Nico doesn’t exactly know where here is, just knows that it’s somewhere in the Mercedes facility and it’s dark, and the window doesn’t give anything away at all, darkened for privacy probably, and the moon is shining through like a taunt. Lewis’ hand is hot, at Nico’s hip and on the back of his neck, with the rough slide against the tense muscles that bunch and sigh, like a cat stretching in the sunlight, stroked and content.
He gasps, mouth falling open but silently: soundless. Lewis says, “Shhhhh,” again, against the shell of his ear and Nico shivers and it’s like a promise. He thinks, yes, yes, okay, I will. I swear. Oh, I’ll be good now and you’ll be good too and we’ll be good, when you breathe deep and your spine curves and your shoulders and your forehead and your fingers touch mine.
And his fingers spread out, like folding paper fans from far off countries, colorful and unfolding, with dark veins and too white skin, blue in the faint light of Lewis’ phone on the table. (The table wobbles when Lewis sits there, and the light sways and makes Nico dizzy with something he can’t name, his mouth dry and Lewis looking away, the light rushing toward him and then away from him and then back again. It always goes back again.) Nico writes the names of places he’s never been with his fingertips over Lewis’ chest, over the place where Nico thinks if he could just listen he could hear his heart beating. There are long, looping letters, a ‘K’ that reaches parts that can take away Lewis’ breath, an ‘A’ that makes his eyes flutter closed. An ‘N’ that means more, with curves to it that say something different, something soppier and sloppier than Nico could ever afford to be, that makes Lewis shiver.
He bites down on the tip of his tongue and traces the outline of the track into the dip of Lewis’ hip, the place where his thumb fits perfectly, like maybe he’s not as mad as he thinks, maybe. But his fingers sway with something he’s lost the name to across Lewis’ stomach and he laughs, rough and ticklish and breathless, and Nico knows better. He maps out Monza’s corners from shoulder to wrist, like it’ll help him tomorrow, Lewis’ hand palm up, leaning against Nico’s chest, and he’s lost.
Lewis says his name, like a curse, bumps his nose against Nico’s cheek and presses a sloppy, opened-mouth kiss on Nico’s jaw, his hand sliding up, out of Nico’s too loose grip, and his thumb presses, misses, catches at the corner of Nico’s mouth, where he’s got no choice but to scrape his teeth across it because – Oh god, he doesn’t even have a reason. Just because. And Lewis kisses his jaw and cups his cheek in his palm, and his teeth scrape and scream something into the gasping quiet of the tiny room they carve themselves into, but Nico can’t understand it over how hard Lewis’ heart is thundering against his palm. God, and it is, he is: thunder and lightning and the raging storm against any place where Nico cups his palms and tries to just hold on. It’s got to be the storm, nothing else could be that furious.
They curve together, around each other, and Lewis is clumsy in the dark. He keeps his eyes open but they can barely see each other and Nico wonders just how much Lewis likes it that way, sometimes, when Nico’s knuckles brush his stomach with every stroke he makes of Lewis’ cock and Lewis breathes in and out and in again sharply. They move together, swaying and inching. Until the back of Nico’s knees hit the couch, and when they’re trying to get here is the only time this room feels bigger than a shoebox.
He falls across the cushions in a way that is almost not falling, but only almost, with Lewis’ hands on his hips and Lewis’ tongue at the hollow of his throat and Lewis following him, for once, and doing it willingly. Crawling up and sitting with knees on either side of Nico’s thighs, his heel rough against Nico’s shin and Nico arches, head thrown back and shoulders pressed tight to the couch, and held there by Lewis’ hands. Oh, and he bends until he thinks he could break, Lewis just not touching him, just barely, barely not touching him at all, suddenly, until he thinks he could break and he doesn’t make a sound with his breath caught up and tangled in the back of his mouth.
And this is going to kill him, maybe, probably, but he can feel summer melting away outside, leaching heat from the insides of his bones and leaving them hollow like a bird’s are. Lighter and ready for flight. Easy as a twig is to crush under your boot. He’s silent, with Lewis’ thumb pressing against the stupidly soft inside of his left elbow, where the skin is red from the friction of his suit and if he closes his eyes and squints just there, he can pretend that he’s been sunburnt by a summer in Greece slipping away and Lewis’ thumb is cruel. It’s only half pretending, anyway. He shivers when Lewis drops a kiss there, just like Lewis knew he would.
Nico curls his fingers tightly around a pillow, digs in with his grip like maybe it’ll be a part of him tomorrow, if he can just catch the words before they slide away from him. Oh, he thinks, with his tongue slipping across the roof of Lewis’ mouth, you won’t, he thinks, blindly hopeful like he can’t afford to be, you won’t be my downfall.