Chapter Text
Nico Rosberg.
That name sat on the tip of his tongue perfectly, waiting to be pronounced. But he never did—how could he?
After 10 years, it almost felt illegal to say it, like it would've broken a silent equilibrium.
Even a silent promise, if you will.
That name used to be the ray of sunshine in his rainy days, his only stability in a cold and horrible gale — and now? His chest aches at the sight of the German in tv, his heart skips a beat every time somebody mentions him, and his gaze automatically hardens when interviewers ask about him (fuck you Sky Sports).
All because he 'sucks at feelings', as Nico loved to remind him a long time ago.
Roscoe's second name was Nico. Lewis started calling him that ever since the real Nico left Formula 1. Every time he missed the blond, he called Roscoe with his name.
By the second year, Roscoe stopped responding to his actual name. Everyone thought he was a rebel, that he didn't listen, that he just wasn't made for tricks.. But trust me, Nic—Roscoe was the most obedient and talented dog ever. Sometimes Hamilton would whisper Nico to him, before asking him to give paw or sit, and he would do it without the blink of an eye. He just wanted to hear his name, after all.
The day Roscoe died, He called Roscoe Nico all day, for comfort. Hearing his name always shifted something in Lewis, his heartbeat stabilised and his mind relaxed just at the thought of his gorgeous blue eyes staring into his not as gorgeous black ones.
There are times where, usually late at night, he misses what they had. Even the fights, the tension, it all gave him a sensation of control.
Maybe he just wanted more occasions to keep that body near his, that voice in his head, that gaze looking at his lips — maybe all those team-building activities they made them do were exactly what he secretly wanted.
Especially the room-sharing, that is.
He absentmindedly sketched a 6 on the sheet he was supposed to ideate his Brazil special edition helmet on, right where he was supposed to put a 44 at.
The number was perfect, and Hamilton sat there for a moment, wondering if he could just leave it there, if others would even notice.
Would it even matter?
He puts the pencil down, leaning against the chair.
He just stood there for a few minutes — muffled noises in the background, the slow tick of the clock stressing the time passing, my muscles oddly tense.
Blond hair filled Lewis' mind, followed by wispy green eyes, defined pink lips.. Oh, fuck.
His hands lingered near his hips.
His touch, fuck, the mesmerising way he had of brushing his body near his, how natural it all was for him.. God how much he missed that.
Lewis cups his pants' bulge, mind completely numb. Just one minute. Just one.
Maybe two.
The breeze of the Brazilian evening hit him as soon as he got out of the paddock.
With him, one of the pr team guys he quite frankly can't catch the name of, trying his best to keep up.
"Lewis! Ti posso disturbare n'attimo?" Lewis, can I bother you one sec?
His voice was familiar, low-pitched enough to sound astonishingly calming.
Lewis looked at him with the usual trained smile, as he unconsciously walked faster.
"Certo." Of course.
The guy put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him from running away.
The driver faced him, his expression now.. weirdly preoccupied. The stutter in the man's eyebrows broke Lewis' pr smile, a flicker of perplexity replacing it.
He took a deep breath, his voice steady — so still it was almost nerve-wracking. "We've scheduled a few interviews for tomorrow morning, as you requested."
Hamilton stared at him, looking like a complete imbecile. Lewis almost said something, but a choked giggle is the only sound he emitted, his expression priceless. Someone please take a photo of this. I need to frame whatever face he is making.
"Here's the schedule. Just so you know..—the man cleared his throat before continuing, breaking eye contact— we had some trouble with the arrangements, so the interviewers weren't up to our decision."
The man mechanically handed him a folder and immediately left, blurting out a "A domani, Lewis." before disappearing between the engineers.
The pages sit there in his hands, the upper edge slightly lifting from the wind, as Hamilton examined the cover.
"A domani." He mumbled under his breath, before walking away, definitely in a more awkward stance. What the fuck was that nervousness?
∘≫———~——∘❀♡❀∘———~——≪∘
The click of the hotel's door brung Lewis back to reality — to a much more pleasant one, that is.
The Brazilian hotel is one of the few ones in the calendar that has a bit of.. life. It's not the usual modern room, full of white furniture and weird design choices (like not having a fucking bidet??), but a place that feels like home, somehow.
He unconsciously laid on the couch, right arm swinging downwards, barely gripping on the interview folder.
It only took one deep breath to drop it, the pages resting on the pavement. He hummed something that remotely sounded like a song by The Weeknd, the stress of the previous months fading at the sound.
His body felt like soup. Like some sort of expired poorly microwaved jell-o.
And it was only Tuesday, for fuck's sake. How could he be this tired already?
The phone rang, Seb's face lighting up the screen. Lewis immediately picked up.
"Lewis! What are you up to?" His voice filled the room, as energetic as ever.
"Nothing. Tiredness is killing me, man"
"You're too old for this, I told you."
All Hamilton managed to respond with is a frustrated groan that almost made his phone fall from his chest. Then, his eyelids slowly dropped.
He might fall asleep mid-call, not gonna lie.
"I just called to tell you I'm proud of you for finally becoming an emotionally mature man!"
Lewis' voice came out sleepy, undone.
"What?"
"I saw Nico today, and he told me about your interview!"
"What interview..?" Lewis shifts on the couch, eyes still closed, his eyebrows furrowed.
He could hear his heartbeat aggressively beating in his chest. And Vettel probably knew, at that point.
Lewis fidgeted with the rim of his shirt. The fabric soft under his fingers helping to ease the tension.
"The one you have tomorrow..? The Ferrari guys haven't told you?" Vettel's accent thickened just enough to make Lewis calm a bit, that familiar sound helping with the heartbeat pace.
"They've given me a folder, stating they haven't decided the interviewers themselves"
"And have you checked this folder?"
Lewis finally opened his eyes, and stared at the papers scattered right beneath him. Then, he stretched out and grabbed them, a groan accompanying the movement.
"Well, no, they handed it to me not even an hour ago.."
Seb chuckled.
"Oh, you're gonna be so mad.. check the 9am interview."
Lewis gaze darted around the paper. Then, he saw "9am" written on the upper left corner of the time table.
9.30 AM- Sky Sport
Media room 3, Ferrari Paddock
≈2 hours (3h max)
Interviewer: Nico Rosberg
Silence filled the room, the distant static made by the phone call suddenly loud on Lewis' skin.
A whisper came from the other end of the call "Lewis? You there..?"
A lump grew in his throat, blocking the 'yeah, I'm fine' that was supposed to come out naturally.
"Lewis?"
The shake in his hands is loud, clear — slight tremor killing him from inside.
A private interview with Nico Rosberg.
For God's sake, why? Why does the universe keep pulling them together, making them meet over and over? Why can't his name, that beautiful name that still sends shivers down Lewis' spine, disappear from his life?
Why couldn't he just forget it all?
Vettel's tone was completely different from the one he held before. Where before there was a hint of laughter, now there was only a silent worry. "Lewis, do I need to ask the staff to check on you?"
Lewis sat up, his right leg now bouncing up and down uncontrollably, almost hitting the coffee table every now and then.
His hands fidgeted, picking skin up and leaving little pinches. He followed his hand tattoo with them, a studied but not conscious movement.
The phone laid right next to him, the screen still lighting up with Sebastian's contact picture, slowly losing brightness.
One deep breath.
"I'm okay. I—I promise."
Another shaky deep breath.
"L, 'you sure?"
A tear streamed down,
His voice came out with a crack. "Yeah."
"I'm coming over. Don't kill yourself until I get there"
"Seb—"
"Shut up and wait for me." Vettel's voice was distant. He was probably standing away from his phone.
Seb's photo disappeared from the screen of his phone, replaced by the blank wallpaper Lewis put in case paparazzi wanted to photograph his phone, which they always did.
He stared at the screen, his mind lost between questions and regrets.
Mercedes would've never allowed something like this to happen.
They would've made sure to meticulously arrange everything, from the schedule to the troupe, trying their best to accommodate their drivers: if only he stayed with Mercedes, he wouldn't have to sit in this embarrassingly small hotel room, having a mild panic attack, all because the team he chose just to escape from what the old team reminded him of decided to shove him in the worst situation possible.
For fuck's sake, Mercedes cared. They cared about his well-being more than the achievements and the trophies, they made Lewis feel important. Never, not once, did he think he was useless while he drove for Mercedes — now that he drives for Ferrari it's a common thought.
Mercedes was his home, his safe space, his life.
If someone told 2016 Hamilton that he wouldn't have spent his last years as a driver with Mercedes, he would've laughed. He would've immediately took that statement for bullshit, without even second-guessing himself. He would've sworn to never take the Merc's logo off his chest, to always race in that distinctive teal-green colour, to never leave the team that most understood him.
If you told 2017 Hamilton, though, he would've believed it. He would've betted he would've switched that same year, being off by some time, but still somehow right.
What changed, you might ask?
Nico.
In 2017, the shadow of the blond became Lewis's mind favourite illusion. His green-ish irises began to appear in the corner of his⁴⁴ eye everyday, making him turn every single time. His⁶ voice sang between crowds, like a familiar tune that only Lewis recognised so vividly. Every podium, every race, every interview, he could feel Nico's presence, a sticky feeling that made his skin crawl.
The garages he once loved became a constant reminder of the teammate, the friend, the lover, he lost just because of some mad obsession, and it was just due time before the sensation became overwhelming.
Ferrari was the choice, for some unknown reason.
Probably because red was the furthest colour he could think of from Nico's gorgeous eyes.
It had been half an hour since Vettel hung up, and the frenetic knocking on the door made it clear that the urgency he⁵ showed on the phone was still thriving.
Seb stood there, arms crossed as always, his pyjamas peeking out the random tracksuit he decided to put on top. His blond hair stuck to his forehead, wet for the most part and ridiculously dry in other sections.
"Hey, L!" He panted.
"Hi, Seb. I missed you."
"Same, Lewis. Same."
Their quick hug was regenerating, their heartbeats synching.
The collar of Lewis's shirt got wet from the drops of rain in Seb's hair.
When they divided, Vettel examined him for a good minute.
"Okay, so? Having a love-crisis because of Britney again?" He asked, a hint of sarcasm peeking through his really distinguishable accent.
Hamilton quickly glanced at him while sitting back on the couch. "Never had one."
"Sure.."
This time the sarcasm came loud and clear.
∘≫———~——∘❀♡❀∘———~——≪∘
Half-eaten takeaway ramen rested on the coffee table, Vettel nudging it with his feet. Lewis, on the other hand, was covered by a blanket like some kind of burrito.
His eyes have a hint of red, his cheeks are puffy and the hem of the blanket is slightly wet — and Seb stared at the view, analysing every pore of Lewis's skin from afar, every move and every word.
L was weirdly.. calm. It's a sensation he hadn't felt in a while. Just pure, real, calmness. Silence buzzed between them, the only sound being the occasional rustling of Seb's hands in a random discount chips bag.
For the first time in ages, his breaths were studied. Not just a necessity, but a relaxing movement, making his chest go up and down and eliminating the pressure he felt right between his ribs.
"Can I ask you something, though?"
Sebastian's voice was loud, it filled the room in an instant, Lewis's head turning towards him almost immediately after not hearing him talk for over half an hour.
After all, they just finished a huge ranting session held by Sir Lewis Hamilton and Sir Lewis Hamilton only.
Come on, Seb was consentient. I promise.
Kinda.
"Mh?"
Seb examined the chip he took from the bag in an almost comical manner.
"Didn't you already have an interview with Nico? Like, recently?"
Lewis stared at him. One deep breath. Don't cry again Lewis.
"2024 Hungarian GP, yeah. — Seb chuckled and mumbled something like 'even the GP' — but.. it's different. That was a post-race debrief. This is a 2-hour-long private interview with him."
"Well, the post-race debrief went pretty good, just do that," He replied, still examining the chip.
"It's not that simple"
"Why?"
Why? Because it's Nico, for fuck's sake. For Lewis, nothing was simple if Nico was involved. Not after all that happened between them.
They looked at each other for something that felt like an eternity,
"Whatever, L. Wanna watch a movie?"