#thinking abt pre silver war brocedes just to hurt myself….

[gokartkid]

9, brocedes💛

9. things you said when i was crying

Lewis hasn’t cried yet. He’s in his hotel room, alone now after everything, still shaking from the adrenaline; from the memories of people screaming in his ear and the heavy weight of the trophy in his hand, like a phantom limb. It felt almost like he should still be holding it now, like he shouldn’t let go of it for 24 hours or - deliriously - like if he didn’t hang onto it he’d never win again.

He wasn’t a superstitious person, but he thought maybe, some people became superstitious in moments like this; that it was forgivable, in moments like this.

There’s still champagne, sticky behind his ear, down the crevices of his neck.

He’s done it. Lewis Hamilton, a Formula 1 grand prix winner. That’s who he’ll see now, looking in the mirror.

He covers his face with his hands, giggles, feels intoxicated even though most of the champagne hadn’t even made it into his mouth; he wonders if it could be absorbed through his skin. There was no other way to let out the fizzing in his chest.

There’s a knock at the door, and he scrubs his hands down his face quickly, takes a few deep breaths. He doesn’t know exactly who it will be, but it seems like a good policy to not be laughing at yourself in your hotel room if the door opened to, say, Ron Dennis.

On the other side of it is Nico. Lewis stares at the back of his head, looking down the hotel corridor, before he turns back around. They both pause for a second, blank and looking at each other before Nico tackles him backwards into the room, arms tight around him, one hand cupping the back of his head.

Lewis just closes the door before Nico is yelling in his ear, barely coherent.

“You did it!”

Lewis is yelling too now, riding the wave of infectious energy. They jump up and down, horribly uncoordinated, every movement sticking together like it would hurt them to come apart, like if he and Nico could just hug tight enough they would become one person.

“Man, this is so crazy.”

Nico is looking at him earnestly, cupping Lewis’ face in his hands. His race had been- alright, the best he could pull out of that Williams that he was chained to. He doesn’t know if it’s a horrible thing to be glad he’d won first, out of the two of them. He tightens his grip on Nico to stop thinking about it.

Lewis feels suddenly overwhelmed, the tears that had been pricking at his eyes finally threatening to fall, the dam on the verge of bursting. He tries to blink them away, schools his face into being a facsimile of nonchalant and cool.

“You’re next, for sure man.”

He pulls himself away, self conscious suddenly about how close they are as tears creep down his face. It reminds him of the past; he doesn’t usually think about that stuff but it’s there, grinning into each others faces like they used to do after their karting races, talking quietly until they couldn’t hold it in anymore and chattering away only to get told off the next morning.

“Of course I am.”

Nico says it with the self assured air that Lewis thinks he might have been born with, a look that suits him right down to the upturned point of his nose. He doesn’t let Lewis get away, grasps at his forearm.

“Hey,” Nico’s trying to make eye contact with him, ducks his head down when Lewis glances away, feels like he’s upturned with too much of his soft belly showing, “I’m proud of you man. It’s all happening.”

“Yeah,” Lewis let’s out a breath shakily, feels it rattle out of his chest, “yeah. Thanks.”

When Nico moves in closer, he isn’t sure what he’s expecting, if he’s expecting anything at all. He presses their lips together, almost sweetly, mouth closed and nose brushing against his cheek.

Lewis can see a curl escaping from behind Nico’s left ear. He tucks it away, with a remarkably steady hand.

He closes his eyes.

The space between their lips tastes salty and sweet, the mix of his tears and champagne. The taste of a winner, he thinks, and smiles into the kiss.

“Something funny?”

Nico mumbles it between their lips. Lewis is pressing forward, his hands grasping at Nico’s waist, fabric bunching between his fingers.

“Nothing,” his body feels electric, “I just can’t wait until it’s both of us.”