Nico/Lewis, post-Spanish GP drabble
Nico is clutching the mic. 29C in Barcelona and his throat feels tight with dust, the roar of the Tifosi filling his ears. A sea of red has spilled onto the track and Lewis is walking towards him, steps faltering almost imperceptibly. It’s bright, and he watches as Lewis adjusts his cap, looks around, beaming, soaking it all in, the fans, the atmosphere, as Nico launches into the interviews.
It’s a moment or two before Lewis can look at him directly, as if he has to build himself up to it, find the composure. Remember who you are, the fans had told him. Nico has never forgotten, he spent months last year wanting to say that to Lewis, his belief unwavering.
It’s a joy, watching him soak up the win, too brief though, and there won’t be another opportunity, too many people around who are anxious for Lewis’ time. He belongs in red now, as if he was born for it.
A flash of silver cuts through Nico’s mind like a knife, carbon fibre flying and tears in his eyes. They had cut each other to shreds.
Red is the rag to tempt the bull, and Nico is tempted, trying to ignore the longing to follow him when the top three are ushered away towards the pre-podium room. He catches Lewis’ elbow, fingers curling around the Nomex, and Lewis stops and turns before Nico has even had a chance to find the words.
He opens his mouth but the want is too vast, too complicated, to put into any of the languages he speaks. Lewis scowls at him a little, but he’s too elated, too full of adrenaline still for the expression to stick. “Not now, Nico,” he says, as Nico’s hand drops to his side.
He watches as Lewis walks on, trying to switch back into TV presenter mode, asking himself if not now might somehow mean later.
janainaart
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2087
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