stuck in da pitt

[four years ago]

“Alright, why am I here?” Nico sits across the low table from you, just as pretty as the last time you saw him. That day was a bad one. Which is probably why you’re picking at the skin around your nails. A habit your father has tried to gently help you unlearn for most of your life. A habit you picked up from him. 

The living room is cool, bright sun streaming in through the tall windows. Nico’s living room. Because you wanted to have this conversation somewhere that he would feel comfortable. Because this conversation won’t be. But you let a smile spread across your face (force it, more like) and shrug. “What? Can’t a girl just want to hang out with her dad’s ex-teammate?”

“Not when you said you never wanted to see me again the last time we met.” His voice is level, but there’s something soft under it. A smile he’s holding back mixed with an emotion much too close to regret. “So tell me, why am I here?”

You sigh. Nico has always been smart. Always seen the things that both you and your father tried to hide. Whether for better or worse. It resulted in many arguments between him and Lewis. Arguments that you overheard. Arguments that hurt your dad. So, yes. You told Nico Rosberg that you never wanted to see him again after he won the championship. And you followed through, cutting off all ties. Because he made your father sad and that was unacceptable as an eleven-year-old. Still is, but you understand a little better now. 

“I just wanted to say sorry, I guess. For that. And for treating you like an asshole back then.” You meet his eyes and a tiny grin ticks up the corners of your lips. “You were an asshole, though.”

Nico raises a brow and looks so thoroughly unimpressed that you almost want to shrink under his gaze. 

“Look, it’s dad’s fifteenth anniversary in Formula 1 and I was gonna do a thing where I invite over all his former teammates for a surprise party.” You lean back on the couch, scrubbing a hand down your face.

“So this is an invitation? Not exactly welcoming.”

“If you get an invite, it will come in the mail like everyone else.” The couch seems to suck you in. Or maybe you’re just slouching further into the soft cushions. “And I saw some old pictures. Of the two of you. You both looked so happy and I just want to see my dad like that again.”

Nico hesitates, his face contorting into something pinched. Then something twisted. Then, finally, a sigh. “He wasn’t happy the last time we saw each other. We…we’re not kids anymore.”

And he sounds defeated. Accepting the fact that his best friend is gone forever and he can do nothing about it. But he can! With you. With your help. If he would just let you. So you push off the couch, looking down at Nico where he sits. 

“Exactly. You’re adults who should communicate with each other.” Nico flinches just slightly. Enough for you to see. You sigh. “Are you free next Wednesday?” He nods. “Good. Meet me at Carla’s for lunch. You’re paying.”

“Wait, I never agreed—“

“You’re rich. I think you can afford it.” You toss over your shoulder before he can finish. And you’re out the door in a blink, leaving him sitting on the couch and staring at where you were moments ago.

“She’s just like her dad, huh?”

“You’re pathetic.”

“Okay, I’m leaving.” Nico pushes his chair back, metal scraping against concrete on the outdoor patio of the small cafe. You reach out, grabbing his arm before he can move too far. He pauses, looking at you with one brow raised. You’re more than glad that your dad has never been able to do that. 

“You keep a picture of my father and you from when you were like twelve in your wallet and stare at it longingly when you think no one is looking.” You say instead of an apology. Because you’re not about to apologize for telling the truth. Not to Nico, anyway.

Nico glares at you but doesn’t stand from his chair. He actually scoots back toward the table. You hold back a laugh because he looks like a little kid, petulantly sitting at the dinner table to eat his vegetables. “I do not stare longingly at it.” Is all he huffs out. You nod like you understand but your face says you don’t believe him one bit. Mostly because you’ve seen it. 

Last time you met with Nico, you swiped his wallet. All fun and games (and making sure he actually foots the bill) until you flipped the old leather thing open to find a picture of the two of them. Smiling on a four-wheeler like they’re best friends. It’s hard for you to imagine, the memory of their fights still the freshest thing in your mind when you think about their relationship. Nico had stared at you with wide eyes, snatching the wallet back and shoving it in his pocket. But not before glancing at the photo longingly (yes, longingly).

“So,” You start as the waiter drops off your drinks and steps away to check on your food. Nico tenses just enough that you’re sure he knows what you are going to say next. “How long have you been in love with my dad.”

Or maybe not. At least, the slack-jawed look of pure shock tells you that maybe Nico had no clue what words were about to fall from your lips. And he’s still not saying anything. Seems to have checked out from reality as a whole. You wave your hand in front of face and grin when he swats it away.

“I am not—why would you even think—this is stupid.” He huffs, crossing his arms over his chest and your grin grows.

“Says the guy who can’t string together a full sentence.” Nico kicks you under the table and despite the sharp pain in your shin, you can’t help laughing. 

“He was my best friend. And I did some things I regret—“

“So you do regret it!” You point at Nico, voice loud enough for a few of the patrons around your little table to glance over. Nico smacks your hand away once more.

“I don’t regret winning the championship.” And his voice is firm. True. He’s not lying. Not even half lying. But you kind of get it. Every single driver you’ve ever met has this need to win. To be first. It’s practically a prerequisite to become any kind of racecar driver. Which is why friendships have to be strong, or they shatter like priceless crystal. You know your dad wouldn’t change anything if it meant he’d lose his trophies. You suppose they are similar in that aspect. “I guess I just wish I had done it differently?”

“Well, you can’t change the past.”

“Thanks for telling me.” Nico grumbles. You ignore the interruption entirely.

“But you can fix what can be fixed. By, you know, actually talking to him.” Your voice is almost disgustingly soft but you can’t back down now. You need this. Need your dad to be happy and you need Nico for that. (And you maybe want Nico to be happy, too. So long as it’s not at the expense of your father.)

[present]

[yn_hamilton] CONGRATS TO MY FAVORITE DRIVER EVER!!! FIRST WIN IN RED 

[view comments]

[user11] yn is literally so sweet you just know lewis is the best dad

⤿ [user12] I know they’re so cute!

[lewishamilton] this is for you, baby girl! ♡ liked by author

[georgerussell63] congratulations lewis!!

⤿ [yn_hamilton] congrats to you, too georgie 🎉

[arvid.lindblad] just goes to show that an old dog can learn the same tricks in a new car

⤿ [yn_hamilton] you are so stupid

[charles_leclerc] that’s my teammate right there! ♡ liked by author

[user13] and he looked good doing it dayum

⤿ [yn_hamilton] ew thirsting after my dad on main im gonna hurl

“Nico?” You stop in your tracks, on your way to watch your dad on the top step of the podium. He turns to face you, something close to a sheepish smile on his face as he makes his way over. Cameras surround the two of you and you’re sure this looks strange. Lewis Hamilton’s daughter casually chatting with his oldest rival. “What’re you doing here?”

“Hey, kiddo.” He reaches out to pull you into a half-hug. Your normal greeting. When you’re not on the paddock, anyway. But you’re used to the stares and the cameras after twenty years of it. It’s strange how it can still feel like home with thousands of strangers watching. “I’m doing interviews. Wanted to see if I could catch a word with Lewis before he got to the podium.”

You look, really look, at Nico. His cheeks are pink but it’s from running across the paddock and there’s a stupid little notebook clutched in one of his hands that you desperately want to read. But ever since the Wallet Photo Incident, Nico keeps a pretty tight grip on anything he doesn’t want you to see. It never really works.

“So, after all these years, you finally want to talk to him?” You raise a brow. A skill you learned from Nico, not your own father. He tilts his head, a tiny grin on his lips at your expression.

“I’m interviewing the race winner.” Your mouth forms a small o as you realize what he means. Nico has a job to do, so he can’t avoid talking to Lewis. Okay, not quite the romance you had in mind. But it’s okay. “Just wanted to give him some warning, I guess.” And he laughs in a way that makes your chest want to cave in a little bit. Like Nico should come with a blaring warning sign to scare off anyone who tries to get close. You flick his shoulder.

“Well, you’re too late. He’s already at the podium. Where I should be. Come on.” You grab his shoulders, guiding him away from the Ferrari garage and toward the gathering crowd. 

Arvid spots you from a few yards away and jogs over with what can only be described as a catlike grin stretching across his face. “This him?” You nod. Nico looks between the two of you like he’s trying to figure something out.

“Uh, I’m Nico Rosberg. You’re Arvid, right? Arvid Lindblad?” Nico holds out a hand that Arvid takes immediately, shaking with more vigor than is probably called for. 

“I know. You’re the one that’s in love with Lewis.” 

Nico groans, glaring at you. You just grin in response, shrugging innocently. Nico doesn’t buy it for a second. He pulls his hand out of Arvid’s grip, looking between the two of you. “I am also a World Champion, but apparently no one cares about that.” He mutters, glancing up at the podium as cheers break out in the crowd. 

Lewis, George, and Lando step onto their respective platforms. You hum along to the anthems, having heard them both countless times. Trophies are handed out, a medal sitting against your dad’s chest, and champagne begins flowing. It splashes over onto the crowd, spraying people with sparkling gold. You can’t help your smile. 

Idly, you wonder what Nico sees when he looks at Lewis. If he looks at your father the way you watch George. Enjoying the way champagne wets his curls and makes his dark racing suit stick to his skin. Eyes tracing over each line of George’s body, appreciative in the way only someone in love can be. You glance over and almost gasp at what you see. You nudge Arvid silently, pointing at Nico. Because he’s staring. Staring at your dad with something deeper than longing. Something stronger than want. And something sadder than heartbreak. You think that there’s a reason he’s stopped denying the fact that he loves Lewis Hamilton.

[yn_hamilton] happy Father’s Day!!!

[view comments]

[lewishamilton] thank you sweetheart! Much love ❤️

⤿ [yn_hamilton] love you too, dad

[user14] lol lewis not mentioning the nico pic

⤿ [user15] ikr? brocedes lives 🙏    ♡ liked by author

⤿ [user15] oh my god?

[nicorosberg] why is there a picture of me here?

⤿ [yn_hamilton] are you not a dad

⤿ [nicorosberg] yes but im not your dad

⤿ [yn_hamilton] not yet comment deleted

⤿ [user16] must’ve been the wind…

[arvid.lindblad] yoooo go dad!

⤿ [user17] he’s not ur actual dad?

⤿ [arvid.lindblad] blocked.

TEXTS W NICO LEWIS AND ARVID

Nico looks between the two of you like you’re crazy. You probably are. Arvid definitely is. George isn’t here yet.

“Why are you at my home again?” Nico asks, stepping aside. He stopped trying to keep you out years ago. That was when he learned you know how to unlock a window from the outside. 

Arvid plops down on the couch, yelping when he feels something sharp. He tugs out a Barbie from under himself, staring at it for a moment before tossing it aside. “Because you’re down bad for our father.”

Nico focuses his you’re-crazy look on Arvid while you skim the bookshelves of his living room for a specific book. You find it, sliding it off the shelf and settling down next to Arvid on the plush couch. The same couch from four years ago. It’s a good couch. “And we have proof.”

The old book creaks as you open the cover. There’s pictures inside. They start young. Two almost unrecognizable boys grinning at each other while they play in a shimmering lake. Nico laughing on a unicycle while Lewis lays on the ground clutching his elbow. They grow older. Karting, four-wheelers, more unicycles (fucking nerds). But they’re all just them. Nico and Lewis. Lewis and Nico. And they’re smiling. In every picture, they’re smiling. Not the kind of smile you give when you see a camera. Not the instinctive upturn of the lips. Real smiles. Ones that hurt because you’re so happy that they won’t go away. Ones that shine so bright they must have been blinding in person. Ones that you’ve only ever seen on your dad a handful of times in your entire life. He used to smile like that all the time.

There’s a knock at the door and you jump up from the couch to get it. It’s George and you drag him into the living room. Nico has taken your place next to Arvid, gripping at one cover of the photo album like he was about to pull it away from the younger man and got distracted by the pictures. Arvid points at a picture and grins. “This is worse than I thought.”

“What is?” George follows you to Arvid’s other side, pausing to shake Nico’s hand like the gentleman he is before sitting next to you. He looks at the photo. It’s old, but they all are. Lewis has short hair still, wearing a sharp suit. Nico is in front of him, chin tilted up as Lewis ties the strip of fabric around his collar. Your father looks so focused. None of the casual ease you usually find when watching him knot his own ties. You can imagine him with clumsy fingers, insisting to Nico that he has it handled. In the picture, Nico is grinning. Probably teasing him. It’s cute and domestic and way too revealing. You flip the page, glancing at Nico. His grip is loose on the book now and he’s looking somewhere else. Not at the pictures. Not at you. 

You push off the couch, brushing off George’s questioning noise. “Hey, Nico. Show me where the mugs are again?”

Nico raises a brow but stands up, looking back at the album one more time before following you into the kitchen. “I’m pretty sure you know where the mugs are, kid. You’ve been here enough tim—“

His voice is cut off as you wrap Nico in a tight hug. Because it wasn’t supposed to be like this. You weren’t supposed to see Nico Rosberg on the verge of tears while looking at a picture of your dad. You weren’t supposed to care if he cried, actually. But you do. After four years of forcing yourself into his life, you care. It sucks ass. 

“I’m sorry.” You say softly, almost reluctant. More for show than anything else. Because you are sorry. You won’t apologize for a lot of things you probably should, but poking at a broken heart isn’t one of those. “I don’t want to hurt you. Either of you. I just think you’d be happy. Together again.” You sniffle once and realize that you’re the one crying. Nico is fine. Sturdy against you and breathing even. He’s used to this, you think. He shouldn’t be. 

Nico doesn’t say anything. Just wraps his arms around your shoulders and pulls you close. He’s humming, you realize after a moment. Humming some lullaby you can’t quite remember the words to. It’s…nice. Reminds you of when Lewis would hold you and sway, humming something under his breath. 

“You’re a good dad.” You say before you can stop yourself. But it’s true. And you don’t apologize for telling the truth. He huffs out a laugh and pulls back, hands warm on your shoulders.

“Come on, kid. Before Arvid finds the picture of me and Lewis covered in frosting.” And he’s smiling. You think that maybe this is okay. Even if it hurts a bit. So you nod, following him to the archway that leads to the living room. He stops just short of the threshold. “And I like George. You picked good.”

You grin, knocking your shoulder against Nico’s. He knocks yours right back and you both head back to the living room. Together. George tilts his head and you just shake yours with a soft smile. Nico doesn’t tell them what he’s told you about the picture. How Lewis did a terrible job with the tie. How Nico wore it like that the entire night, turning away anyone who offered to fix it. You think maybe they know anyway.

The location is a quiet cafe in the heart of Monaco. Warm and quaint with all kinds of pictures and signatures hanging on the walls. Even a few trophies. It reminds you of the diners you used to stop at when you were a kid going to your dad’s races in America. He told you once that Nico brought him to his first American diner. It only seems fitting that this is the kind of place they should make up. 

(And maybe make out. Once you are done being mediator and have gotten at least two miles away from the Kiss Zone.)

“Hey, baby.” Lewis’ warm cologne surrounds you as he presses a warm kiss to the top of your head, hand squeezing your shoulder. He settles down in the seat next to you, smiling as he looks over the menu. “So, wanna tell me why I’m here?” 

You don’t get a chance to answer, because footsteps stop behind you and Lewis looks up, eyes widening at what he sees behind you. 

“Kid, please tell me this isn’t what I think it is.” Nico’s voice is slow, like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. 

It’s not that Nico and Lewis haven’t seen each other since Nico won the championship. They saw each other just a few months ago at the Spanish Grand Prix. Actually talked, even if it was during an interview and every word was carefully curated for the live television broadcast. But they haven’t seen each other in years. Even before Nico retired. Not since before they were pushed toward a rivalry that went further than either of them intended. 

So you turn around and smile at Nico, a little guilty but mostly just embarrassed at being caught so quickly. “Look, the two of you need to talk. Even if I have to act as mediator. Now sit.”

Nico groans, but doesn’t argue, taking the seat on your other side. You truly do feel like the definition of mediator, acting as a physical buffer between the two men. You also can’t help but smile because you can see the light flush on Nico’s cheeks as he glances over the menu at your father. 

“Sweetheart.” And there it is. Lewis’ hand on yours and a look on his face that says he’s sorry he has to be the one to break the news. “You don’t have to do this. Me and Nico can solve our own issues.”

You level your father with a look so dry and unimpressed that Nico actually snorts out a laugh from your other side. “Dad, you haven’t solved your issues in the past decade. I think some intervention was needed.” He cows just a bit. Enough for you to level the same gaze at Nico this time. He’s not laughing anymore. “Now, did you have something to say to my dad, Nico?”

“Uh…” Nico looks at you for a moment, brows pressed together, before nodding. “Oh, yes. That. Right.”

“Nico, you don’t have to say anything just because my daughter asked you to.” Lewis sighs like he’s used to this. Like you bring old-friends-turned-rivals to lunch to repair their relationship every week. You don’t, in case that was unclear. Or maybe it’s just the long-suffering knowing of a man who has put up with your shenanigans for over twenty years. 

“I’m not doing this because of her.” Nico says before you can even interrupt to defend yourself. And him. Because he isn’t doing this because you told him to. He isn’t facing one of his biggest regrets against his will just because you pouted at him. He’s doing it because he wants to. Needs to, you think.

“Then why?”

It’s a good question. From your dad’s point of view, Nico is someone who hurt him and left without another word. Someone who stayed away for years before finally showing up again. So, why now? Why at all, if not because he was forced by you?

“It doesn’t matter.” Because I love you. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. Not for winning, but for hurting you in the process. You don’t have to forgive me,” Please forgive me. “but could we at least be friends? Who actually talk instead of just sending my kids Christmas presents from Santa?” Maybe more?

And suddenly you feel like you’re intruding on something. The way Lewis’ face softens and he can’t seem to look away from Nico. The way Nico is watching Lewis with something like desperation in his gaze, hands wringing. So you slip out of your chair. Nico’s gaze flickers to you, questioning. 

“I’m going to let you two talk this out.” You turn to your father, gesturing somewhat threateningly. “No arguing.”

Surprisingly enough, he doesn’t even try to argue. Just nods once and leans forward to press a kiss to your cheek. “I promise.”