#(alan.)

But it isn’t that, exactly. He was prepared to be annoyed by Logan’s brash American-ness, and he is. It rubs him the wrong way in the way it bothers him when George gets emotional about the Queen, and he can forgive it for the same reason – there’s something sweet about people who know where they’re from and love it. He can see the tight, bright pride bursting in Logan’s chest when the American national anthem plays in Miami and it makes him think of Thailand.

He was prepared to find Logan uncultured, and was almost embarrassed at himself once he got to know him better. Logan traveled like the rest of them, moved to Europe for karting like the rest of them, lost chunks of his childhood and family like the rest of them. Yes, Logan prefers brisket to chicken rice, but Alex probably prefers brisket to the chicken rice they tried for that video, and he’s still kicking himself that he never managed to drag Logan out to a hawker for the real thing. Maybe he’ll compare congee to grits, but he likes grits, Alex learns. He’ll try anything Alex puts in front of him. He’s up for anything, uncomplaining. 

Maybe it’s that, the way Logan reminds him of a little brother. The way Alex will tease and needle and make fun, right up until he finds a sore spot, sees a flash of pain, or a note of actual self-deprecation. Then, somehow, he turns into Logan’s biggest cheerleader. He tells himself it’s because he’s committed to being a good senior teammate, that he wants to show Logan the ropes and be supportive. He and Lando talk about this sometimes, because Lando’s in the same position with Oscar but Oscar never seems to make Lando feel like his skin is on inside out. At least, Lando hasn’t ever said. And they’ve played twister.

It’s not frustration that Logan is struggling, because he’s doing his best. Alex sees it every day. He sees how hard Logan works, can tell how much he cares, behind his too-cool-for-Formula 1 Americana photoshoots, and behind his laid-back answers about being a down-home Florida boy. Logan has the same fire they all do, gave everything he had in Qatar, desperate to show the team his heart. Logan poured his heart out to Alex that night, once they were both out of medical. Afraid James wouldn’t trust him anymore, frustrated by the feeling that things beyond his control kept going wrong, ashamed that he wasn’t holding up his end of the points-scoring bargain. Alex thought briefly of his stint at Red Bell, tried to imagine going to Max in the roiling depths of his struggle. It made him want to hurt things. It made him tense and uncomfortable, and he thinks he said the right things to Logan but he still isn’t sure based on the way Logan skirted around him for the next few days. 

Alex doesn’t know what it is about Logan until Williams stuffs them into horrible Christmas sweaters for a merch promo shoot, and Alex hates so much that he recognizes the Miami Dolphins logo, that this is who he is as a person now, but Logan is beaming in this stupid sweater that isn’t even the good kind of blue and orange, like the Gulf livery. And Alex kind of hates that he’s in a sweater with random cat faces all over it, because he did not set out to be the crazy cat person of Formula 1 — he doesn’t even run the pet instagram – but they could have at least been his cat’s faces, c’mon. Except Logan laughs when he sees Alex, reaches out and touches one of the cat faces and meows, and something strong and insistent twists in Alex’s chest, and oh he thinks oh. Fuck me. And he thinks I need to phone George and I wonder if Lando is having this problem as if maybe it’s a universal human experience to fall a little bit in love with your rookie teammate, and that certainly would explain some things about Carlos but also, he thinks nobody on the grid has the same quick, sharp dimple Logan does when he’s surprised by his own smile. Nobody on the grid has eyes that dance quite so readily, and so often in step with Alex’s. And Logan doesn’t seem to think anything of it, the home for the holidays vibe they’re working with, elf on a shelf and the slippers and the bizarre implication, in the story of the photoshoot, that they live in this random pub Williams’ social media team have acquired for the occasion. 

“You should come visit my family,” Logan says, between marshmallow-laden refills of hot chocolate. “I think you’d love Christmas in Florida.” 

Alex laughs. “Pink flamingos and lights in the palm trees?” he asks. 

Logan grins, not a trace of embarrassment in him. “Yeah,” he says. His cheeks are pink and happy. “It’s great.” 

Alex would kill and die for him. “Only if you promise to come visit Thailand,” he says. “I can show you some proper beaches.” 

“Big words,” Logan says, but his eyes are dancing in step with Alex’s. “You just tell me when.” 

Lando is waiting for them at the pub, and sometimes the brightness of his energy makes Alex squint, makes him mean, to dim it. Sometimes, like tonight, he likes to bask in the glow. For a self-professed introvert, Alex has never understood quite how much Lando blossoms in a group of friends, even when it’s only Alex and George. Tonight, Lando is in fine form. Their pints are waiting for them, a plate of chips, and Alex takes his first bite and his throat closes up with emotion. He pretends the food went down the wrong way, coughing into his hand and gulping his beer. It’s a convincing enough excuse for the way his eyes are watering, but he supposes George probably knows better. George usually does. 

His coughing fit attracted a few glances, Alex notes. The bartender, the old men sat near the door, and at the end of the bar, a handsome blond man Alex would bet a paycheck is not from around there. He looks away quickly when Alex meets his eyes, staring at the TV with rapt attention. Alex glances at the TV and smothers a smile when he sees it’s in the middle of an insurance commercial. 

It was good to get out, Alex realizes, halfway into his second pint. His smile aches with disuse, and he can already tell his abs will be ever so slightly sore from laughing. He can’t even explain most of what Lando’s been telling them about his work, but it’s better comedy than the American version of Shameless he’s four seasons into. 

“We should play darts,” George says, into a pause in the conversation. He nudges Lando’s foot on his barstool. “You owe me a game.” 

“I do not, mate,” Lando squawks. “I won that last one.” 

George raises an eyebrow. “There were extenuating circumstances.” 

Lando scoffs. “You’re a sore loser is what it is.” He looks over at Alex. “You play the winner?” 

“Sure,” Alex says. He’s not big on darts, personally, but that makes it even more fun when he beats the others. He’d rather watch people play. Normally, he’d follow them over to the dartboard and offer scathing commentary on even the best of throws. Tonight, he keeps their place at the bar, nursing his drink. It’s pleasant like a high, languid. He’s been good about not drinking his sorrows away, so the second stout is hitting him heavy, a warm flush on his cheeks and a fuzziness to all his thoughts. 

“Hey,” a voice says at his side. 

Alex turns to look, and there’s blondie from the bar, eyes so blue, and jaw so sharp, and smile so friendly and open he must be American. 

“Not into darts?” Blondie asks, and yes, definitely American. 

Alex takes a moment, hesitates with his hand on his pint. Down one road, he shrugs Blondie away and joins Lando and George at the dartboard. Down the other… He shifts on his barstool, turning his shoulders ever so slightly towards Blondie. He takes a sip of his beer. 

“Not so much,” he says. “Though I’m apparently playing the winner.” 

“Ah,” Blondie says. A cloud enters those sky-blue eyes. “Well, I don’t want to bother you.” 

And Alex is charmed, god help him. There’s some kind of accent, something regional he wouldn’t have a prayer of placing on a map, and there’s an almost abashed respectfulness underneath the veneer of Brash American. 

“You’re not,” Alex says, smiling against the lip of his glass. “We can chat till I’m up.” He extends his hand. “Alex.” 

“Logan,” Blondie replies, and suddenly Alex knows what people mean when they say someone has a megawatt smile. Logan could light up a city block with that thing. “You local?” 

Alex nods. “You could say that,” he says. He raises an eyebrow at Logan. “Are you?” 

That draws a laugh from Logan, broad and delighted. George and Lando glance back over at them, and Alex pointedly doesn’t wait to see what George’s face does about it. 

“These days, I guess,” Logan says. He thumbs the edge of the bar. “I’m from Florida, originally.” 

“Florida,” Alex repeats. “Tell me about it.” 

Logan does. He tells Alex about the beaches, fishing, being so far out on the water you can’t see land, and the stars over the ocean at night. He tells him about the everglades, seeing alligators from an airboat, about spending Christmas at Busch Gardens one year. He tries to ask about Alex, but Alex doesn’t want to talk about himself. He wants to listen to Logan talk, to watch his lips move, watch the way his skin crinkles so deeply around his eyes when he smiles, and Logan smiles a lot, when he talks about home. 

“I’m sorry,” Logan says, flushing under Alex’s gaze. “I’ve been rambling.” 

“Not at all,” Alex says. “I’ll be honest with you, I’m pretty recently out of a relationship, and the idea of talking about myself tonight sounds hellish. This has been nice.” 

“I’m glad,” Logan says, then goes pink all over. “Not the, you know, not the breakup.” 

Alex laughs, and Logan laughs with him, grateful for the out. 

“I feel like I’m usually smoother than this,” Logan says. 

“Must be my devastating good looks throwing you off your game,” Alex teases. 

“Yeah,” Logan says, serious enough it makes Alex’s breath catch. “Must be.” 

Smooth indeed, Alex thinks. 

“I think your friends are about to come chase me away,” Logan says, leaning in conspiratorially. 

Over Alex’s shoulder, it does seem that Lando and George are about to return, surely more than one game of darts into leaving Alex to his conversation. 

“You should take my number,” Logan says. “In case you ever want to not talk about yourself sometime.” He catches his bottom lip in his teeth, and if it wouldn’t be such a devastatingly horrible idea, Alex would lean in and kiss him. It must show on his face, in his posture, because Logan goes sharp like he’s ready for it, lips parting. 

“Yeah,” Alex says. He sits up and digs his phone out of his pocket, opens his contacts and hands it to Logan. “Here.” 

Logan enters himself as Logan - Florida. Alex chuckles when he sees it. 

“It was really nice talking to you,” Alex says. He nods towards his friends, and Logan stands up, vacating what was George’s chair. 

“You too,” he says. “I’ll keep an eye out for your text.” He drums his fingers on the bar. There’s something else on the tip of his tongue, Alex can tell from the sparkle in his eyes. Whatever it is, he keeps it to himself. “Have a good night,” Logan says, and then he retreats to the end of the bar and signals to the bartender for his check. 

“What was all that?” George asks, when he and Lando return. 

Alex shrugs. He’s warm all over, from the alcohol and the heady feeling of being desired. It’s a potent combination. 

“Do you want to go with him?” Lando asks.

Alex scoffs. “He didn’t exactly offer, did he?” 

“Didn’t he?” George asks. “Seemed like that’s where it was heading.” 

“We were just talking,” Alex says. “Making conversation.” 

Lando and George share a look. “Whatever you say, mate,” George says. 

They let it drop, blessedly, and Alex doesn’t have to play a round of darts at the end of it, because they get distracted and then it gets late. They close out and shove Lando into an Uber, and Alex and George walk back to their flat arm-in-arm again. “Was he nice?” George asks. 

Alex doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Yeah,” he says. “American. He gave me his number.” 

“Will you text him?” 

Alex thinks about Logan’s hands, strong, well-defined, the brilliant blue of his eyes, and the inviting, ready warmth of his smile.