πβ§Λ ΰΌ βｑβ‘Λ
Today is June 2 and that means there are 13 days left until my fucking brocedes-styled b'day, during which i will tell ya theories, facts and sketches that I know about them.
Today I'll post 1/3 p of my old fanfic Idea that i won't ever wright in future (and i have many more important projects now sooo...)
Today, only the introduction will be released, which remains written from the time when the fanfic was still being worked on. All other parts will be released in the format of a brief summary of the events, not a literary text!
Β« It's starting... Hardly tell when.
Getting up becomes harder. Falling asleep, too. Until it threatens his life, Lewis doesn't sleep. He does everything, communicates with everyoneβhe doesn't care what anyone thinks of him. Let them hate him. As long as it keeps him sane, he stays. He quits drinking, hoping it will make him feel better, but then starts again. He plays every remaining game on the console, takes on any offer, any contract nonsense that Ferrari throws at him, any training session, or request for help. He does everything he's told to stay home and stay awake. He only passes out on weekends, before a race, because otherwise he simply won't be allowed to drive the car, but he doesn't always get enough sleep either. He laughs strangely every time he hears the same problems from another driver. He says, "Where is FIA looking, if this has become a constant trend?" and, more often than not, he avoids the conversation. He hopes no one even suspects he has any problems. He's a good actor. Or rather, he would be, if he got at least some sleep.
Whenever he gets the chance, he hangs out at testing. He pesters his mechanics with questions, pesters his engineers, and irritates anyone he understands. He doesn't know these people, and he doesn't care about their feelings. They're not his family. They're nothing to him, and he has no reason to worry about their free time, opinions, or work. He pretends he's "suddenly feeling the urge to start winning places and working hard again," as any driver should... The only problem is, he consistently ranks from fourth to eighth, never moving up even under the most unlikely circumstances. But...his and Leclerc's cars are absolutely identical, and his teammate consistently holds the lead on the grid, making the lie glaringly obvious. He doesn't answer questions and leaves immediately. Lewis never shows up at home; he has no reason to. There's been no one waiting for him lately. With each passing day, the realization that no one will check on him or worry about why he's been gone for so long makes him decide to leave this place altogether. He knows how to drive, he has money, and he has friends and "girlfriends" all over the world. From the outside, it seemed like he was simply having a wonderful winter break, and Hamilton was proud of it. And sometimes, sometimes, he actually felt better. Sometimes he truly forgot about why he couldn't sleep anymore. Laughing at a bar with friends, struggling futilely to assemble a wardrobe at his parents' house, and trying to memorize, let alone understand, the new mechanics of the racing cars proved quite...exciting? Surrounded by red walls, he sometimes still believed he could move forward.
And then he found himself by the ocean.
He didn't even need to look around to recognize this place. He didn't even need to open his eyes. He knew that smell by heart. It was embedded in his head so deeply that even if he smashed it, the memory wouldn't fade. Lewis stood, the salty surf brushing his bare feet. The water was warm, reflecting the clear, starry sky. inhaled deeply.
β "The Big Dipper, Orion, Sirius, the central bandβthe Milky Way,"
Hamilton lists under his breath, barely audible, succumbing to memories against his will.
β "And the constellations Canis Major and Canis Minor,"
a calm, measured voice from his left finishes what Lewis hadn't dared say. Hamilton doesn't have time to stop himself and reflexively turns. It's him. With his clean, sun-bleached blond hair. He gazes thoughtfully, smoky, somewhere beyond the horizon, sitting peacefully on the sand. His blue eyes seem to reflect the entire universe.
The German nods quietly, and Lewis, frozen with shock, sits down next to him. His pulse beats in his ears, resonating with the loud surf, driving him crazy. Rosberg looks... peaceful, one might even say reassuring. His lips stretch into a quiet smile, as if nothing has happened, and is not happening now. Lewis can't tear his gaze away, but even if he were blind and deaf, he would recognize his interlocutor. The brunette remembers his scent all too well. And for a few seconds, or maybe minutes, Lewis decides to give in to the moment, close his eyes, and imagine everything is fine. He inhales deeply, then deeper still.
The gentle, calm surf lulls the panic, leaving behind only wet feet and toes buried in the sand, bright and white, slightly warm after the sultry day, lulled by the peaceful twilight. About ten minutes pass, during which Lewis completely loses all thought, enjoying the rare peace, when the quiet voice resounds again, more anxious and hesitant.
β "You...want to talk?"
Lewis, after a moment's thought, nods, to which the blond takes a deep breath but can't think of anything to say. The silence continues as they both consider how to get this all right and avoid losing each other again. In the sand, they find each other's hands and tentatively touch, skin to skin. His hands are soft, slightly cool, blending in color with the sand. His fingers tremble occasionally, as if the blond is ready to yank his hand back, but it doesn't happen. Lewis dreads it even more, shyly stroking the velvety skin with his thumb. The world narrows to a single point. Lewis is ready to give everything for this to continue. He's... ready. Filled with a shameful, childish tenderness, as if they were 13 again, Hamilton turns his head, hoping to see the other man's full face.
Lewis opens his eyes in complete darkness. His heart is beating so fast he can't breathe, clutching at everything in panic, cramping, and coughing desperately. He's starved for oxygen, hitting his solar plexus once, twice, as if he's choking. Cold sweat, mixed with salty tears, covers his body, and finally Lewis falls to the floor, painfully cutting his skin on the sharp corner of the bedside table. No, no! This can't be allowed, this can't be... He runs his hands through his hair, unbraided for the winter break, and tugs, tugs, tugs, with all his might, until it becomes easier. Breathing heavily, his whole body shaking, the Brit stares at the white concrete ceiling, realizing he has no idea where he is. A face flashes before his eyes. Blond hair, blue eyes, gracefully arched eyebrows, drooping corners, jawline, lips... Lewis curses himself for falling asleep. He curses as much as he can, feeling even more tired, and spends another thirty minutes like that, inhaling greedily, smelling only the disgusting smell of alcohol. He gets up, fighting the painful, aching feeling in his chest, and spends the same amount of time standing under a cold shower until everything but the desire to warm up is washed out of his head. The realization of where he really is only begins to dawn on him after he's swallowed some headache pills. These are the tests, the second day before the end. And even though it's still some time before they're due to arrive, Lewis gets ready and goes outsideβa walk wouldn't hurt. He doesn't need much, and he has enough time to walk to the base. The city is still asleep, the streets are empty, and it's just getting light. Lewis briefly considers checking Instagram or Twitter, but stops himself. If he did something last night that he doesn't remember, he can deal with it later. Right now, he just needs to breathe, move forward, clear his head...
Why him again!? Lewis is sure nothing reminds him of him anymore. Ham was barely home, was rarely alone, didn't read any media that might even briefly mention n... Britney, just a dumb blonde. He infuriates him to the core. And what infuriates him even more is that Lewis is 41, a damn year old, and he's running around the world from some idiot who's even stalking him. And maybe Lewis still...
No. Never again will he trust that insolent German face. Hamilton is trying to live a different life, trying to be a different person. He's involved in music, charity work, is into design and fashion, travels a lot, and even paints! But the more he does it, the more...strange things he ends up doing. Not what he wants. Not how he wants to appear. It just...doesn't fit with his image. No one must know. Unless...
The first half-day of testing is going surprisingly well: the car is truly much better than the one Lewis "inherited" last year, and that's pleasing. He's put a lot of effort and swearing into this, but his efforts are gradually starting to pay off. In high spirits, but tired from four hours of testing, Hamilton meets Charles, his replacement for the rest of the day. They greet each other and exchange the usual comments, after which they have almost half an hour left before the start of the second block. They're sitting next to each other, and Hamilton is offering friendly advice to Leclerc on how to use the car's reserves more effectively on corners. Lewis is used to doing this, but last year their conversations ended with small hints and jokes, so when the Brit stops talking, silence falls. They're sitting next to each other, and Lewis is still afraid, tempted to open Instagram. Instead, he casually asks
β "Listen, wasn't I...wasn't I in Greece yesterday?" Charles looks at his teammate with some confusion.
β "As far as I know, no. Just like today, you were at the tests... What's the point?"
An awkward silence fills the room again, while Lewis curses himself a million times over for even thinking about it and decides he can't leave the conversation on that note.
β "And you? Have you ever been there?"
β "Yeah, I go there often! I even met Russell a couple of times. How's he doing, by the way?"
The Brit is expected to respond, and he realizes he hasn't spoken to George once during the winter break. Damn it. This definitely needs to be addressed, definitely...
Ham lies, and immediately distracts his teammate with a question.
β "Listen, what do you do with your time away from racing?"
Noting Leclerc's even more confused expression, Lewis adds,
β "After all, you're my teammate, and I know next to nothing about you. And we have a tough season ahead of us, right? A winning one, to be exact!"
The brunette playfully nudges Charles, who chuckles heartily.
β "Various, actually. Diving, tennis... piano, sometimes. Design, maybe even. As far as I know, we have similar interests."
β "Oh no, man, I'm terrible at tennis! I can't believe how hard it is."
β "I could try to teach you, if you want!" Charles's eyes light up at the chance to repay Hamilton for his teachings, and Lewis can't resist that puppy eyes.
β "Well, if that's what you want, I doubt I'll run away from you. Besides, I really think we should start doing something together besides chess."
β "Hey, I'll get back at you!"
β "Ha-ha, yes, please! Don't be shy, and pull me out anytimeβI'll probably be free."
β "Oh, and I thought it was quite the opposite. You see, I always thought we should spend more time as a team during winter break, but you seemed to be having such a good time that I can't even decide whether to be jealous or scared!"
Hamilotn quietly takes pride in his actions, then asks humorously:
β "Hey, what do you mean?"
To which Leclerc, more shyly but with a certain genuine admiration, replies,
β "I just... I can't imagine how you have time for all this! You simultaneously do a tremendous amount of work on the car and the team, but at the same time, you constantly show up at all sorts of events where I wouldn't even expect to see you! It's as if you have a couple more hours in a day than the rest of the planet combined. But I can't explain how you remain a wonderful driver and an interesting, active person any other way; it's as if you never sleep!"
Charles delivers this speech with sincere admiration, while Lewis, the further he goes, the less he knows what to answer, and is already preparing to run away or tell a complete lie in response. Β»
That's it for today, see ya tomorrow !!
