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The ceiling is a shitty yellow. Which is useless information really, but it’s a nice addition to the collection folder he keeps in his head. It’s crazy how many different colors hotel rooms choose for their ceilings. One might think there was some sort of protocol, of unwritten rule for the casual, cozy, neutral aesthetic most hotel chains try to give off. Maybe there is one for those below 4 stars, the kind that doesn’t bother with interior. Lewis wouldn’t know, him and Sebastian only fuck in 5-star suites. And it’s only with Sebastian that he ever bothers looking at the room ceilings, really.
Of all the times his dick has brought him to places you shouldn’t even venture with a gun (namely: shady motels after thousand-dollar champagne in Miami, that one weird strip club in Kyoto, the whole of Brazil while on a week bender, etc), he had never paid much attention to the interior design. Most of the time his view was blocked by a pair of (always much appreciated) boobs, anyway.
And yet, he has a neat, complete, chronological, nearly color-coordinated track record of the ceiling colors of every room he has fucked Seb in. Mostly because, among other things, Lewis is a coward. A bad coward. As in, he was bad at being a coward. Because a normal coward, if he were to find himself in the situation of being unable to look his lifelong best friend/ friend with benefits/ man he’s utterly devoted to/ single irreparable weakness/ guy that once physically dragged him out of a canal in London and personally checked that the teenager who had shamelessly been filming them the whole time had actually deleted all the evidence from his phone- if a proper coward were to find himself in his situation, the same situation he had been finding himself in more or less periodically for an odd 20 years, of staring at hotel room ceilings because he couldn’t physically manage to look at the man he had just fucked right on this bed, Lewis’ body frozen, rock-still above the bed cover they hadn’t even managed to rip off before crashing on it, at the mere possibility of meeting his eyes-
you see, a real coward would run. But not Lewis. And not because he’s particularly brave, matter of fact a brave man would face this head on, look his fear- look Sebastian right in the eyes.
Lewis is not a brave man tonight.
Actually, Lewis hasn’t felt brave in a long time, if he thinks about it (he doesn’t). But unfortunately Lewis isn’t a good coward either. And so, vomit-yellow ceiling it is.
But, thankfully for Lewis, love is known to cause temporary brain damage. Which means that for the past more or less fifteen years, Lewis has been, other than a coward, also a moron. If the line between stupidity and bravery truly is just a rope, then metaphorically (and sometimes literally) it would already be bounding Lewis’ wrists to the headboard, and Lewis’ tongue in the shape of one single name.
He wondered if Orpheus felt the same, going through hell for love, unable to look.
But, once again, Lewis is stupid, and clearly hasn’t learned anything from the classics.
So in the end, he looks.
Seb is still at the window. Seb is still shirtless, too, though he has a pair of sweatpants on that he must have at some point dug out of Lewis’ suitcase. Also, Seb looks fucking ridiculous, he has an awful farmer’s tan going on because for some godforsaken reason he has been devoting his life to chickens and woodwork, as of late. As a matter of fact, he looks like a complete moron, his forearms look about three shades darker than the rest of his body, the tan skin covered in fuzzy, sun-bleached blond hair (for real this time, not like the time he pulled up to the paddock looking fresh out the hair salon). His back and his chest, on the contrary, are the usual eerily pale blank sheet, the same as an odd ten, twenty years ago if not for the thin veil of fat now covering Seb’s still lanky, slim frame.
He racks his eyes over him, from the tan, twig-like forearms covered in scratches from his new-found outdoor life that Lewis knows to be much stronger than they look, to the strong, white biceps which still feel like a new, much appreciated addition, down to the soft skin of his hips and the dip of his spine, fully on display as Lewis’ joggers sag around his waist, useless to hide the 32-toothed purple mark right on his hip joint, looking almost violently out of place in contrast with the vastity of moon-lit skin they mar. And then up again, to the broad of his back, the way the shadows of the dark room dance over the taut, stretched muscles as he leans against the wall, head bowed so his forehead touches the cold glass of the window, devoted, almost, to the half-crescent orb outside. Half black, half white, half untouchable, going around in its circles in the sky, half in an hotel bed, fingerprints and bruises everywhere.
He slowly, like a magnet being pulled, drags his eyes away from the spot where Seb’s tan nape meets the stray curls he would undoubtedly cut short once again, to where the Moon stands mocking, seemingly still, seemingly perfect in the sky. Half black, half white. But always whole.
A better version of them, surely.
He glares at it, because Lewis, too, has been going around in circles his whole life, and yet, now that it’s time to set, he finds he doesn’t have a single gram of her grace.
But then again, he’s just a man, and she’s the Moon, and she rises and sets every day, and he only had one first, with the wind in his ears and his heart in his throat, and he will only have one last.
He thinks distantly of being in this place, was it 8, 9 years ago? He remembers being in Brazil, with friends he doesn’t speak to anymore, a model abandoned in a bed somewhere. He was on the back of a scooter, hungover, trying not to throw up, and then they took him to a visionary of sorts, the kind that reads your hand and reads your future in a glass ball on a table. Just for shits and giggles.
He remembers looking around this sort of purple-ish red-ish tent full of weird jewels and tapestries, and being told this woman worshipped the Moon, of all things.
He looks back at Seb, how his skin glows white with the light and black with the shadows like a painting in chiaroscuro, eyes closed, looking out a glass panel like a masterpiece in a museum, the Moon the white circle illuminating him for people to ogle at.
And then he looks at the faint finger prints on Seb’s right hip, at the purple love bite behind his ear, which could only be seen from the shadows behind the painting, and he thinks that maybe, he gets it.
He sends her a silent thank you.
He finally dislodges his arm from behind his head, and throws his hand blindly over the rough wooden surface of the bedside table as he tries to find his vape, feeling older than he has in years.
It’s unbecoming, at the very least, to be on the threshold of turning 40, of which more than thirty spent being an athlete, and still being held in a chokehold by his vices. He looks down at the vape, then back at Seb.
Yeah. Embarrassing.
The mint-lemon ice flavour fills his mouth, a cloud of white smoke blessedly hiding the ugly ceiling above him, even if only for a second. He doesn’t smoke that often anymore now, just one of those things you grow out of once you realise that trying to look cool is the uncoolest thing in the world.
But, the white cloud above him fills the room with citrus notes, and if he focuses hard enough, he can taste the sweat under Seb’s ear on his tongue.
He would never admit it- unless it was during a passionate love declaration, when they finally reach the maximum amount of yearning two people can stomach, maybe during the big, final argument that finally brings them together. But Seb isn’t the type for big arguments, or dramatic love confessions. If he was, Lewis might finally get the chance to scream at him and get it off his chest that sometimes, when he’s alone in his apartment, and the bed feels too big, he breathes out a cloud that tastes like lemon, and his hand finds its way down his boxers.
But, Seb isn’t the type. So Lewis smokes instead.
He likes smoking around Seb. Mostly because it pisses him off, which is very funny, but then Seb looks at him with that disapproving crouch where his mouth is pressed really tightly together and his eyes go from big and round to sharp and cold. That’s less fun.
But, at least, it makes him talk to Lewis. Which should be easy, in theory, given that the guy usually never stops talking, but- surprise surprise- Seb is actually one of the quietest people on earth, once he gets comfortable.
Lewis hates it. Pay attention to me, screams the petulant 12 year old voice in his head. He glares to where Seb still has his back to him. It’s a nice view, at least.
Thankfully, his little manipulation tactic works.
As soon as the sweet, artificial smell reaches him, Seb’s head sharply snaps up, turning his neck almost 360° to give him the Look.
After so many years of pissing him off on purpose, Lewis still hasn’t quite figured out whether bad attention is better than no attention or not. Regardless, he’s grown tired of looking at the ceiling.
“Really?” Seb asks, arching a single eyebrow. He takes a step back from the window, looking at it like he’s debating between the vape smoke and the freezing night air outside. The sweatpants are riding so low now that Lewis has a full view of both his happy trail and his V-line.
He wishes he could paint.
Seb finally looks back at him, stuffing his hands in the pockets of the pants he stole from Lewis, tilting his head to the side, his 38 year old, mature, disappointed face melting into the careless, intoxicating amusement of when he was 18, yet to know the feeling of a real race car shaking him to his very core lap after lap, win after win. Lewis can still see him as clear as day in the lines on his face, in the twinkle in his eyes.
“Have you ever touched a boy, Lewis?”
Lewis chases the thought away, focusing on present-day Seb. He half-heartedly imagines his expression if he were to get up from the bed, drop to his knees right there, between the bed frame and the wall, crawl to him on all fours. He imagines the sound he would make if he were to pull down those fucking sweatpants, the way his face would scrunch up, as if crying, when he bit his inner thigh.
His beautiful Seb, always so expressive. Such a whiner, such a pretty crier.
Instead, Lewis throws his arm back, resting his head on it again, and breathes out another white cloud, one that tastes like Seb, and blessedly covers his unimpressed face.
“That’s awful for you. And it’s underpaid children making it, you know.”
He sighs, drops his head against the pillow once again. Back to staring at the ceiling it is. The lemon doesn’t taste very sweet anymore.
“It’s reusable. And i never smoke, anyway.”
Seb makes a non-committal sound. Lewis can hear him move around the room, plugging his phone in. Then he hears the rustling of fabric. Is he going through Lewis’ suitcase? Again? He’s already stolen his sweatpants, what more could he want-
The bed croaks with a *thump*, Sebastian’s body now laid out starfish-style next to him, his face smushed in the covers. Clearly whatever he was looking for to keep warm, he didn’t find among Lewis’ stuff. He feels almost offended, he had a series of perfectly good hoodies in there, sorry if it didn’t fit Mr patterned shorts’ style.
And then Seb is on his feet again, dragging the covers down with little finesse, tugging with all his might until Lewis graciously lifts his body and the next thing he knows is that they’re both burrowed under the covers, Seb’s face melted into his shoulder, scratching at his clavicle with his stubble, one arm wrapped around Lewis’ own like a teddy bear, and one clothed leg wriggling to be let in between his naked ones.
Lewis is never going to pack a hoodie again. Useless article of clothing, really, fuck fast fashion, fuck capitalism-
“The FIA is a fucking joke, that penalty was absurd.”
Lewis just sighs. So they’re doing this then.
He clings with one arm to Seb, one hand cupped around his chin so he can stroke his cheek with his thumb, feeling the short beard. It takes a while before Lewis says anything. Thankfully, Seb leaves the ball in his court.
“But that was the least of the problems, wasn’t it? Just the cherry on top.”
He stares straight ahead. The night is so quiet, they might as well be the only people awake in all of Brazil.
Seb would have every right to tell him to fuck right off. Had it not been enough, the amount of times Seb had told him it would end like this? The warnings, the pleads, to please see reason, open your eyes, you know how this will go, where it will lead. Had it not been enough, the years spent watching Seb break his back week after week after week dragging the carcass of a champion on his back, round and round in the first circle of a personal hell, a lifeless corpse tied to the winning chariot as for 12 days and 12 nights it reunited with the dust it came from, around the walls of Troy, but with no vengeance and no satisfaction?
Lewis had thought himself Achilles, glorious conductor of the legendary army he had once defeated, righteous conqueror finishing the job on his enemy’s mighty horse, marching victorious in his very temple.
Now Lewis realises, as the walls crumble and the city is finally laid bare before him, that he had fought a war not against a kingdom, but a graveyard. That the blood soaked in the soil of his trail was not a sign of his passing, but a warning of where his path will wind.
He looks around, desperately searching for the valorous warriors whose defeat had granted him his name, and he finds only pyres of corpses engulfed by fire. Will his body, too, be merely a landmark?
Has he truly prided himself on a war against no one at all?
God. It had felt good, at the time. He had tasted metal and blood, red staining his hunger-plagued mouth, his crazed eyes as they raked over Monza, a sea as crimson as carnage. The Blood River flowed below him, Lewis Hamilton, the first plague of God, his silver arrow, the staff of Moses.
He had licked his teeth for a week straight, after. Barely ate, the glory fed him more.
Now the ashes clung to his palate.
“Who do you think will win the championship?”
Seb asks, seamlessly changing the subject, because Lewis’ bitterness is so tangible it might peel the paint off the walls. And hopefully the God-awful yellow ceiling, too, while it was at it. He faintly wondered what could be hiding underneath it, plain plaster? Or had it been a different colour once, before this fake, sickening, off-putting and forced cheerfulness had suffocated the material?
He suddenly felt a weird wave of guilt well up between collarbones and throat. That poor paint hadn’t really done anything to him, had it? It wasn’t its fault if Lewis was old and bitter.
“I don’t know” he said, finally, which he had come to know as a phrase put there simply to introduce an inconclusive, but still present argument. “That McLaren is unreal. But so is Max, isn’t he?”
Seb just chuckled, putting some space between their bodies as he laid on his back again, his right thumb mindlessly tracing his eyebrow. The grin stayed on his face, as if his mind had momentarily gotten lost somewhere.
“Not exactly some fine title contenders, are they? The orange twins. God- we were never that bad, were we? Me and you?”
That brings a smile to Lewis’ face, despite everything. “No. No, we were not”
“I mean” Seb continues, now unable to contain his amusement. He’s got that sparkle in his eyes, that mean streak. The one so rare to find in them these days, now that they’re kinder, wrinkly-er. “everyone makes mistakes, but- jesus”
Lewis can’t help but laugh at that, a full sound that has him cover his face in partial shame. He kind of feels bad for those boys, if only a little. But just because it’s mean, it doesn't mean it’s not true.
He turns to Seb once more. Here, tangled in the bedsheets, away from the moonlight, the shadows are less kind on his face. The wrinkles around his eyes are deeper, as are the lines on his forehead, around his mouth.
My God. They’re getting old.
It’s not like he hadn’t realised- it was at least a few years now, that an internal clock (or rather, a clicking time bomb) had nestled itself snugly between his lungs, right below his heart.
His time was over, he knew that. His contract, however, was not.
But as he looked at Seb, sprawled out on the bed with him, wearing Lewis’ pants, one arm thrown over his eyes, an amused smirk still pulling his lips apart, he found it didn’t matter. None of it mattered, not one of the last 20 years mattered, in this hotel room they might be 40 just as 30 or 20 or 15- and it would not have mattered because this night would stretch on and on until the end of time and morning would never come and Seb’s plane would never take off and Lewis’ suitcase would never be closed and this championship would never be won by anyone at all.
Just for one night, they could be anyone they wanted, anyone at all. Lewis would tug Seb close and go to sleep and pretend he was hugging his husband, after a long day at his office job. Or maybe he could be an artist, hugging the model for his latest painting. Or he could be 20 again, winning Formula 3, and adding his first hotel room ceiling to the tally.
He lazily threw an arm over Seb, dragging him closer. Did it matter, in the dark, that they were actually two washed up, emotionally constipated 40 year olds unable to talk about their feelings like grown adults? Were the last 20 years still there, when they didn’t look at them?
Maybe. But did they matter, did they have importance, if Lewis didn’t give them any?
Probably not, he decided. And if they did, that sounded like a problem to be solved in the morning. For now, Seb was drifting off in his arms, and Lewis could pretend that the concept of a thing called “Monday” was just awful thought he’d had in passing.