#where lewis is an ex-ballerina turned choreographer and seb is a mostly-unemployed fine dining chef who's supposed to be writing a cookbook

[red-flagging]

Sewis - Rhythm of Your Love

(send me a title and i'll give you a 5 sentence* fic)

"Seb," Lewis's muffled voice says, a rhythmic thumping coming from the trailer door for the fifth time in as many minutes, "Seb, I know you're in there, come on."

"No," Sebastian says out loud into his pillow, and even to his own ears, his voice sounds horribly petulant, but–fuck, he deserves to be, after this race. Fuck Austria, and fuck the SF1000, and Binotto, and Christian for finding him after the race just to clap him on the back and say, "Tough bit of luck, eh?" – and fuck himself, too, for looking over at the RB16 in parc fermé and thinking for one treacherous moment, what if, what if, what if–

"Seb," Lewis says, "I'm not leaving until you open this door." His voice is equal parts concerned and exasperated, the sound of it as familiar as Seb's own heartbeat. As stupidly, stubbornly persistent as his own heart, too, with the way it bashes itself against closed doors and refuses to leave well enough alone and surfaces in front of him, day after day after year after year, even when he's done nothing to keep it coming back.

He waits a second longer anyways, just in case Lewis has let his better judgement win out and is going to leave him to wallow in peace after all–

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap, Lewis's hand on the door says again, and Sebastian groans into the pillow and pushes himself up to go let him in.