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The smell of champagne is inextricable from winning, even if he’s been mostly sober for a few years now. Champagne is the drink of champions; it’s the color of blonde soft locks falling back into place after the balaclava and the helmet were off, accompanied by that little smile. The irony is not lost on him, his first win in Ferrari is not framed by his dad’s watchful eyes or his mum’s tight hug. No, it’s a nervous smile, those same blonde locks and hands that are fidgeting with notes on his phone, even as he asks the right questions.
In a sickly-sweet way, Lewis is kind of glad that it is Nico who is in front of him now. We are so familiar. He can’t meet his eyes of course, and it’s hard to answer any question really, but he nods, he smiles; fuck Lewis is smiling in ways he’d forgotten to.
He tries to thank everyone, the team, the tifosi, “gracias” spills from his mouth over and over, like that smile he is not quite able to retain. Inside, he doesn’t actually want to give that smile to Nico of all people, but he just can’t stop.
George squeezes his shoulder, and Norris is saying something about how good they were and then they are off to the cooling room and he is not cooling, the thrum inside his veins is deliciously warm, liquid fire, godspeed.
The podium is a blur; there’s a quality to the euphoria he’s feeling that he can’t quite grasp. “Thanks for reminding me who I am”. The sea of red beneath him erases any possibility of looking for any particular face. He should look for Charles, console him a bit, tell him how good he was, or Fred, thank him for everything, he’s done that already, will do it again; but no, his mind is somewhere else.
This is his win. The top step of the podium beneath his feet, his hands making the trophy fly. His face plastered in every news site. Lewis knows he should be focused; but this is his win, can’t he, for once, just here in the middle of everything, let his mind wander?
Two kids in a swimming pool.
The team picture with him and Charles at the center, his team mate with sad eyes but a sincere hug. Yet his mind is away.
Long rides with his mind on the road, dilated eyes watching the clouds float by.
He’s pulled into another set of interviews, this time more lengthy, better lit. He should be zeroed in on the camera and microphone pointed his way.
Golden hour over the track in the dessert.
Someone hurries him along getting dressed, not even his shower is truly private.
The full moon rising over the acropolis, his arm loosely around Nico’s shoulder, a bottle of champagne warming between them.
First times.
All the first times.
You left when I forgot to speak.
The end of first times.
The sun goes down late in the European summer, Barcelona rages on. It’s all one continuous party, he doesn’t drink, but he toasts, he laughs, he dances, he signs caps and posters and shirts and even jerseys that have nothing to do with him or Ferrari.
Lewis is finally left somewhat alone for a second on a tiny balcony above the ramblas, behind him the celebration is raging, sponsors and good chunk of the grid all partying in his name. Out here, he can hear his thoughts better though. It’s the first time in many hours that he is slowing down. Below, he can see the people, the tourists, the mix of tifosis, football fans watching the world cup matches on various bars along the ramblas, girls and guys donning dresses, flags and light-blue makeup coming from some pride celebration. Everyone down on the street and everyone to his back on the rooftop, seem to be one same mass of happiness and carelessness. It is contagious, too contagious.
He takes one deep breath, attempting to regain his sense of self. His face feels numb after hours of laughing and smiling for people, for the cameras, and yes for his own; but he’s been caught in the joy of everybody around him and it’s hard to decipher what are his actual feelings. Lewis leans on the balcony and inhales deeply again, and again, exhales slowly, flexes his fingers, stands on the soles of his feet, and then on his heels. He’s here, now, he’s here a Ferrari winner today.
It’s warm even outside, the fabric of his pants sticks slightly to his thighs and makes him think of a fresh shower. There’re beads of condensation on his flute of non-alcoholic champagne. He misses Roscoe, he thinks of home.
He does something stupid.
“Champagne reminds me of you”
Lewis reads the text he’s just wrote and immediately deletes it.
“Being drenched on champagne reminds me of Greece”
Better? No, he hits erase again.
“It smells like the acropolis, remember?”
Oh god no, what is he doing?
He nearly desists, but…
In the end he just raises his flute to the street below and snaps a quick picture, writes “cheers” and hits send before he can talk himself out of it.
Lewis stares at his phone for a second, seriously considering the possibility of throwing it off the balcony, or at least turning it off, when three dots appear. They show for less than a second.
I thought you didn’t drink anymore.
And then a picture.
Nico doesn’t just send a random picture of a glass and a scenery like Lewis did, no, he sends a selfie: him raising flute of champagne with his back to a crowded dark place, not a bar but probably a private party, maybe even a yacht. He appears a little fuzzy, hair a bit of place, face shiny with some color on his cheeks, and that blonde lock that used to fall on his face. He is no longer wearing a jacket but still put together, casually unruly, fuck.
Here’s to you.
Fuck.
And really Lewis should have known, he knows, any other day he knows that he is still not immune to Nico’s ridiculous charm which is a bit cheesy and bit gorgeous and so damned self-assured. He can feel his own cheeks warm up. Is that all it takes? He chews his cheek and passes a hand through his own not so messy hair; maybe he could have worn braids today, he feels too loose.
Lewis stares at the screen for an ungodly amount of time before he realizes he’s supposed to reply. Maybe Nico thinks that was it, maybe it’s the briefest most polite interaction they’ve had via text.
Realistically Lewis could turn off his phone now and go back inside where there’s at least a hundred people waiting for his attention, where friends and the team and even former rivals are wanting to uplift him and listen to him and celebrate together. He can just not reply, that is an option. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time Lewis initiates and leaves.
Where are you?
The bluntness takes him by surprise, but it shouldn’t, Nico’s never been anything if not relentless and absolutely unable to let anything go, ever. His worst quality really, but also, it’s a fake question.
You don’t need me to tell you that.
Then three messages in rapid succession, as if the speed would throw Lewis Hamilton off his game.
Yeah, I know where you are
can I come?
or will you leave if I do?
Lewis does something stupid, but he’s won today, today he’s going to celebrate. Today is his first win with Ferrari, another first. A new first he’s going to celebrate, just today.
He’s clicking the call icon before he can think twice about it.
It doesn’t even get a chance to ring.
“Lewis?” Nico sounds out of breath.
“Nico” He relishes the sound of his name on his mouth, just today… “if you wanna come, come.”
Now he turns the thing off and rejoins the party.
From the rooftop the late summer sun is just done setting. If he thinks about it, this win will be over in no time, and that’s life (love).