#4411

Lewis hums, tightens his grip on Checo’s waist. “Colorado,” he says. “Denver.” 

Checo doesn’t say anything at first. His fingers dance over the bones of Lewis’ wrist, slide forward to curl over Lewis’ hands. 

“Colorado,” he concedes. “Not Denver.” 

“Not Denver,” Lewis agrees, and presses a kiss to Checo’s shoulder. His skin smells like the sea, warmed with the sun that chased them indoors and out of the midday heat. There’s a light sheen of sweat coating both of them that makes the thin sheet cling to their legs like plastic wrap. “Somewhere in the mountains,” Lewis says. 

“Yes,” Checo says. “In the mountains.” 

~*~

Lewis doesn’t buy the Colorado property for Checo, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t thinking about him when he signed the papers. Checo doesn’t come, anyway. There’s no reason for him to be in Colorado, and Lewis isn’t going to invite his wife and children along. He’s not that kind of martyr, thanks. Checo never asks him to, he’s not that kind of martyr, either. 

~*~

Monaco, then, though Lewis is constantly paranoid that Nico is going to know, somehow, even with all the steps Lewis takes to make sure he and Checo never cross paths. Even though they’ve sworn each other to secrecy a hundred times, their own private fucked-up confession, prayers panted into each other’s skin, secrets that could destroy them both. There’s always a pit in Lewis’s stomach for days after Checo comes to the apartment in Monaco. 

After Nico, they don’t fuck in Monaco again. 

~*~

Who needs Monaco? There are beds everywhere. Hotel beds in Asia, in the US. Their trailers anywhere else - Lewis’ trailer, usually, because it’s easy enough to joke he’d stopped by to see Roscoe. Nobody needs to know that Roscoe was politely exiled to the living room for the duration of the visit. Checo does the fucking, unless he’s a little bit drunk and things are a little bit worse than usual at home. Lewis always expects to regret giving in, but he never does. It’s too sweet, even with the way Checo will go strange and silent for a while after. Lewis doesn’t chase; Checo always comes back. 

~*~

Checo goes to Red Bull, and everything goes to shit. It’s not his fault, but that doesn’t matter. He tries playful, tries conciliatory, but Lewis can’t separate Checo in-his-bed from Checo in that godforsaken team polo. He makes him change out of team kit before he comes to the room. After Silverstone, after the response, Lewis tells Checo they can’t fuck anymore. 

“Lewis,” Checo says, a curl of laughter around the unsteady tone of his voice. “Come on, are you for real?” 

“For real for real,” Lewis says. He shakes his head. “I can’t do it, man.” He can’t look at Checo, either, his mouth hanging open slightly, the blank hurt of his wide brown eyes. “It’s fucking me up.” 

To his immeasurable credit, Checo simply nods, curls his fists in his jacket, and leaves. 

~*~

So many times, Lewis thinks about reaching out. Then he closes his eyes and sees Checo in the Red Bull polo. It’s not fair, he knows. The team is awful to Checo, demeaning, racist. It’s a job. He can’t blame Checo for taking the best seat available, but he does. 

~*~

2021 passes, 2022. Max wins again, again. Mercedes missed the window and Lewis is drowning, the good captain going down with his ship. He hears the paddock rumors about Checo and some woman in Monaco and feels an irrational sting of guilt. It should’ve been them together celebrating Checo’s win. He wouldn’t have let Checo end up in the papers. He wonders, briefly, if maybe Checo was trying to make him jealous. He doesn’t enjoy the thought. 

~*~

It’s November 2023 and Lewis is tired. He’s tired of the stupid games, the gimmicks, hoop after unending idiotic hoop to jump through for Liberty or Netflix or Mercedes admin. They’re in Las Vegas, and it should be cool to race on the Strip, he knows. This kind of thing is good for the sport, that’s what everyone keeps saying. But Lewis is tired. There are two races left and he knows, with a sick kind of certainty, that he’s going to go another season without a win. 

Maybe that’s why, when they’re finally let down from their hunger games pedestals, he lets himself bump into Checo. It’s the kind of slightly-too-long contact that used to be an easy, immediate signal. 

“Sorry, man,” Lewis says, for the show. 

“No problem,” Checo replies, perfunctory. He doesn’t even look at Lewis.

And why should he? Lewis chides himself. Lewis is the one who cut when things were bad, who let two years pass without anything. 

Then Checo glances back, a thin furrow between his eyebrows. It’s a question, and Lewis can’t tell what he wants the answer to be. Lewis flicks his tongue out to wet his lips, gives Checo what he hopes is a lopsided smile, something apologetic and wanting all at once. He probably looks like an idiot. 

Checo’s jaw tightens, the line between his eyebrows smoothing away. He tilts his head, almost like he’s about to roll out his neck, and then he smiles. 

~*~

It’s nothing at all like riding a bike. Checo kisses up each of Lewis’ finger tattoos. “I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” he murmurs. He kisses each letter of the word blessed behind Lewis’ ear. “I want them inside me,” he says. “I want you to fuck me.” 

He’s sober, clear-eyed. Lewis wonders what changed, if Checo spent the last two years broadening his horizons. Checo never used to be so at ease with his hunger. Lewis asks him about it, when he’s fully inside and Checo is staring at him like he’s seen God. Checo’s laugh sounds punched out of him. 

“Jealous?” he asks, pushing up on his elbows. His body is strong but not showy. It’s capable, human. There’s fat layering the obvious muscle that has never seemed to bother him, even when the muscles were less obvious. 

Lewis doesn’t want to admit to it, so he rolls his hips instead, to watch the way Checo’s breath stutters, the way his fingers flex against the sheets. 

“They didn’t fuck you like I do,” Lewis says. He knows that much is true. 

Checo rolls his eyes. “There’s no one else,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Who could I trust?” 

~*~

After, tangled together with a blanket pulled awkwardly over their bodies in the rapidly-cooling hotel room, Checo turns until he’s on his side, reaches out and traces shapes over Lewis’ stomach. 

“Why now?” he asks. 

Lewis takes a while to answer, and Checo lets the silence breathe with them. 

“I’ve missed you for two years,” he says. “I’m tired of missing you.” 

Checo rests his palm flat over Lewis’ heart. “I’ve missed you, too,” he says.