#straight outta the notes app😎😎

[sionisjaune]

journalist lewis au (seb/lewis)

There's a new journalist in the press room. He raises his pen elegantly and waits for Tom Clarkson to call on him, and when it's his turn to speak, he announces his name but not who he's working for.

"For Sebastian," he says. "Are you aware that a one hour trip in a private jet accounts for two tonnes of carbon dioxide emissions? That's anywhere from five to fourteen times more pollution per passenger than flying commercial."

Seb is comfortable behind the drivers' podium, half-drunk on champagne and victory. He leans into the microphone.

"Ah, but you haven't seen my jet," he says. "There is free alcohol and if you ask nicely a very comfortable bed in the back."

"What's free if the cost is the air our children breathe?" the journalist says.

Seb fiddles with the damp collar of his racesuit. His skin is sticky underneath. He says, "I don't have children. Still in free practice." Everyone laughs.

-

"Who was that guy?" Seb jokes with Britta over dinner, a platter of pasta between them and the remains of a charcuterie board strewn to the side. He had a funny look--a torn-up denim jacket and a thick diamond stud in each ear, shoes that belong on a basketball court rather than the bland carpet in the press room.

Later, nearly passed out in his hotel room, Seb receives a link to a Wikipedia article from Britta.

Lewis Hamilton, twenty-six and hailing from Stevenage, a town Seb has never heard of, is a Pulitzer winning journalist.

Seb almost laughs, between the white walls of his hotel room. Journalism must really be dead if Hamilton is slumming it trackside. You can sell silly season rumours for petty cash, but there's nothing to bust wide open. If Hamilton is chasing a prize-winning story, he won't find it at a Grand Prix.

-

The next race, Hamilton is absent. Seb inquires about it later, and nobody knows because nobody cares. He takes the question to Britta, and she uses her superior intellect to furnish Seb with an answer. Lewis Hamilton has been banned from all Formula 1 media activities because he asks impertinent questions.

-

Hey. I got your number from a source I'd rather not reveal, but I was hoping you could help me get into the press conference Thursday.

A text from an unknown number floats to the top of Seb's notifications.

It's Lewis Hamilton by the way.

Seb texts back. Britta's going to have his balls.

I'll see what I can do.

-

It's years later. Domenicali hates Lewis, but Seb sneaks him into the paddock every weekend. Lewis wanders between the garages taking down names and politely requesting interviews.

Lewis is a deceptively vicious reporter. There's no off the record with him—his mind is a tape recorder, and he never forgets an incriminating detail.

Seb knows he’s working on something big. It’s terrifying.

-

They're in Seb's room, a glittery suite that overlooks the Marina Bay Ferris wheel, and Seb has to ask. He has to, because Lewis won't say anything, but he's been intimating that he has the kind of story that could raze the earth and topple grand, old institutions.

"If you love racing," Seb says, "then why do you attack it?" He doesn't say: I would give this rotten sport anything, no matter how morally compromising. He doesn't say: This is my life.

"Look at me," Lewis says. Seb does. Lewis is sitting on the edge of Seb's bed, and gentle, spidery crow's feet sprout from the corners of his eyes. "Do you think I ever had a shot to make it here? Did you know I was the fastest kid by a tenth at any track, and there wasn't a single manager who ever spoke to me and my dad?"

"It's hard," Seb says. "For myself, it was hard. If Michael hadn't championed me--"

"No," Lewis says, firmly. "I need you to understand that there wasn't a chance. Not for me, and not for the other kids like me, watching Senna race on TV and desperately wanting to be him. I'm doing this for those kids, Seb. You ever wonder why half the guys on the grid are so fucking accident-prone? It's because talent is only half of it. It's money and politics and brand recognition." Lewis is breathing hard. Seb drinks in the fervour bubbling out of Lewis like he's starving for it. "I'm going to tear this whole thing down and plaster the truth on every cover in New York."

Seb can't take it anymore. His body falls towards Lewis, and the kiss is messy, unplanned and unanticipated. Lewis pulls back wetly.

"That was inappropriate," Lewis says. He slides off the bed and collects his coat from the back of the chair. The braids that Lewis habitually tucks behind his ears have fallen forwards over his cheeks. He tucks them neatly again, and his hand hovers over the door handle.

"I thought you respected me more than that," Lewis says, all clipped English syllables. "Call my assistant if you have something I can use."