#leanne writes

haunt all of my what ifs

His hand is softer than you remember; calluses from skateboards and guitar strings long lost to the rub of butter soft race gloves.  But he clings tight to your fingers just the same, restless thumb stroking circles around your knuckles.

You linger; he always outstayed his welcome and you know if one of you is going to pull away first it won’t be him. You used to hate that, now you use it to keep him close. 

He smells like success and sunshine and you never meant to be this kind of old man, never wanted to write poetry in your head to a rival with the sharpest smile. 

His fingers squeeze and you know you’ve been caught, but he stays there holding on too and for a moment you almost believe you could kiss him.

A camera flashes and you let him go. If his smile falls a little you don’t let yourself notice. 

——

find something to wrap your noose around

He calls you sometimes, late at night when he knows you’ll answer. Breathes into the phone and you want to pretend you can’t tell his mood from the tiny huffs that come across the line. You used to be better at lying to yourself.

Your heart beats harder with every word and when he asks you how to stop you want to wrap him in your arms and tell him. But that isn’t an answer he wants to hear. You stopped because it was time, because the drive was no longer what you lived for.

He wants to stop because it hurts, because the red dreams he had have faded to pink marks across his heart. 

You tell him to call you when he no longer feels the pain and you hold your phone close as he presses his mouth into his pillow and sobs.

——

it would have been fun, if

It started like this;

rain dripped cold and wet down the back of your neck. His eyes were bright blue and lined in red, the sky cried with him. 

Your fingers clutched at air, arms empty at your side. He gripped the trophy tight, his lips leaving marks against the shine.

Someone clapped you on the shoulder while champagne poured over his head and your mouth opened chasing the taste.

You hated him {you wanted to be him} and the edges of your world turned a little bit sharper.

——

dream about what happens when

His lips taste like banana and red bull and it almost makes you laugh, everything changes yet nothing ever does and you know he’ll taste the bitter coffee on your tongue.

Your shirt is twisted between his fingers, your collar pulled tight. He pulls you down to his lips and your fingers dig deep into his waist. 

You wonder if he has wanted this as long as you have, but how would you know? He could tell you and you still wouldn’t know when you lost yourself to him. When the need to destroy him left and desire rushed in. 

His breath is hot against your cheek, his lashes brushing butterfly kisses. You think he has no right to be this soft, to melt against your chest when you’ve seen his backbone of steel.

Your name whispers from his lips and you hold it close, let it echo, fill the places you didn’t know you were saving for him.

‘I’m going to kiss you’ he said and you had to pinch yourself just in case.

——

it killed you just the same

The worst mistake you ever made was spitting his name out between your lips. Four years of history fractured with harsh words and festering resentment. One bad race and you razed it to the ground.

You had his forgiveness before you were ready to ask for it, but your words haunt you. Follow you around all these years later in black print and the way their eyes narrow, the tick of their lips when they hear you defend him, celebrate him. They think they know you, but they don’t. 

Now you have to check his eyes when you tell him that he’s everything, doubt creeping into your own thoughts so you have to check it hasn’t slipped into his.

He shakes his head every time and smiles and tells you ‘i know’ and bites your lip instead of his own. But you check his eyes anyway and wait for the day they look like theirs.

He tells you you were right and you believe he believes that. But the words still sit heavy on your tongue and you wish you’d swallowed them down.

If you could go back, you’d close your own mouth. 

——

with you I fall, down

You hold him when it’s over. When the secrets finally unravel and leave him shivering on your doorstep.

He shouldn’t be here but you pull him in close and kiss the tears from his lashes.

You want to rage and fight but when he looks at you, legs a tangle around your own, you see the shadows his own battles have left in his eyes. He breaks apart in your arms and you speak a silent promise against his hair. 

His enemies are your enemies and you never liked red anyway.

——

for you I would ruin myself

He asked you once if you knew what you were doing. You smiled and slipped further down his body. 

The truth is you’ve never been as lost as you are with him. He came out of nowhere and stole all your futures. He plucked prizes that were never in your reach and then he turned around and shared them with you until you started to expect it.

And when he stopped, you reached for them yourself and lost your balance. 

Sometimes you think he tried to catch you, sometimes you think he turned away.

You screamed for the things he took that should have been yours. You were older and they were yours to take first. There was a darkness that grew in your stomach until you realised he was always meant to win. 

It’s easy to resent him when he waves a finger at the cameras, another trophy for his cabinet, another record you’ll never beat. 

It’s easy to love him when he says your name like a prayer.

——

wool to brave the seasons

‘We made a good team.’

‘Aye, mate. Except for the crashes.’

‘Was it easier then? It felt easier.’

‘Winning is always easier, it’s the times between that got hard.’

‘I don’t remember that.’

‘No, but then you kept on winning.’

——

pacing the rocks

You’ve learnt to talk in silences. To let your heart spread open in the moments of quiet. His breath and yours and moments where words can’t touch you.

Words between you haven’t always been kind.

But his hand on your hip, his ear against the heartbeat in your chest; those are the things that are safe. Your lips find a place between the curls on his forehead that feels like coming home and you press them there to keep three words in.

But you say them in the slide of your hand over his stomach, in the smile you offer when he greets you in green for the first time; something like fear in the tremble of his hands. You say them as loud as you can without saying them at all.

You hear them in the picture he keeps in his wallet, the curl of his body into yours when nothing has happened and you’re both at peace. He says them in every step through your door and into your bed, where he makes himself vulnerable to a man who once would have burned him. 

——

get your knuckles bloody

He tells you the stories don’t matter, that he doesn’t read them so they can’t hurt.

But he has creases around his eyes that haven’t come from laughing and his voice crumples like tissue paper when he tells you there’s been another article.

He ducks his head away from your wandering hands and wears a cap when he can’t hide indoors.

You clench your fists and imagine the crunch of a nose, the snap of a rib.

He researches when he thinks you aren’t looking and you dream in blood red. 

He finds you with scissors in one hand, hair pulled taut by the other. For a moment you wonder if he will take the scissors and make the cut himself, if he’ll turn around and leave you to the harsh glare of the bathroom light.

He stays, and the scissors clatter into the sink as he crumbles beside you.

He asks you for forever while your knees grow cold against the tiles and your t-shirt clings damp and twisted to your skin, his lips against your collarbone.

You say yes. 

——

no other shade of blue but you

You used to think you’d be alone forever. {you used to think you would marry and have a handful of children and a house full of dogs.}

When the world twisted around you and centred on him, you thought the path of your life was laid out ahead of you and you settled in to walk it alone. 

You forgot how much he loves to prove you wrong.

——

the shiniest wheels, now they’re rusting

You watch as his years get harder. Shout into a microphone and watch his car spin across track after track. 

Red to green and his fights are for double digit places. The shelves in your office are cluttered with his success. You think you’ll put another shelf up, but not yet. Not this year.

You remember when he’d wrap an arm around your shoulder on a podium, smile so wide you wondered if he might swallow the world. The crowds cheered for him, but he was looking at you. 

He still smiles so wide it must hurt, still wraps his arms around you. They still cheer for him and he’s still looking at you.

But you watch his car retire and you don’t see the anger that used to come. The voices beside you talk about contracts and the end of the line and you laugh and call them crazy. ‘He’s just getting started’you say and it feels like the truth.

He always believes in his team, but he has you to believe in him. 

——

the hope of it all

There’s a ring on your finger and a man who keeps a part of you tucked up in his chest; another thing he’s stolen from you. Another thing you let him take.

He’s ridiculous and absurd and you’ve never loved anything the way you love him. 

He fills your garage up with bikes and spare parts and your house with the smell of baking bread.

He writes letters by hand, signs his name at the bottom like anyone wouldn’t know they’re from him. He still draws a smiley face on questionnaires and his texts have full punctuation. 

He’ll hug anyone close and press his nose to their cheek when they win, but only Lewis has his number.

You’ve been out to dinner with every ex-teammate that came after you, but it’s only family that he invites to your house. 

He’s an old soul with a child’s open heart and when he licks his lips from across the room you lean against the wall to keep standing. 

——

shining just for you

Someday you’ll watch as he accepts another trophy. Holding it high as the champagne pours down his neck. 

You’ll talk and talk while his driver turns and bows to him, and you’ll remember India and a man who couldn’t lose.  

He’ll still wear green, but headphones instead of helmets. He’ll still remember every corner and every straight, only he’ll tell you about them in sector times and telemetry instead of the feel of the wind as it pushed at his car.

You’ll leave your booth and meet him in the garage and he’ll still be looking at you, still smiling that smile. 

‘You did it’ you’ll say and he’ll laugh and wave at his whole team and when he kisses you, you’ll taste the sticky sweetness of winning. 

‘I’m counting this as number five’ he’ll say and you’ll know they’ll all let him. 

Once, he would have put a hand on Seb’s to still him (once he would have kicked his ankle under the table and told him to ‘sit still for christ sake’).

He leans back in his chair instead, waits for Seb to slow himself down.

His coffee comes and he smiles at the waitress, shakes his head when she asks with a nod to Seb if Mark needs anything else.

The steam is nearly gone, the coffee almost ready to drink without burning his lip, before Seb finally throws the straw amongst the others and plants his hands flat against the tabletop.

Mark hides a smile behind the lip of his cup. Sometimes he thinks it’s odd to feel proud of Seb. They’ve been many things to each other, but pride always seemed like something a father feels for his children or a teacher for his favourite student. Mark has never felt responsible for Sebastian like that, but he is proud of him. So very proud.

“You going to tell me what this is all about then?”

Seb’s hands flutter a little, slip across the table towards the abandoned straws before he stops them. If they were somewhere else with glass tables, Mark knows there’d have been a squeak.

“Lewis is changing his name.”

It’s not exactly what he was expecting and he lets out a little huff of amusement that he tries to pretend is a blow across his coffee, when Seb’s eyes glance across at him. “Yeah, I saw that.”

“It’s…” Seb shrugs, shoulders loose and soft and Mark is relieved he can still read him as well as he ever could. “It’s good. He’s wanted to for a long time.”

That’s not a surprise. Mark has never been close to Hamilton, but those early years aside, Lewis has never seemed to make decisions without careful thought. He thinks that’s probably why he and Seb fell together so easily once they actually tried.

But Lewis wanting to honor his mother isn’t why Seb called him. Isn’t why Mark moved a couple of meetings around to free up the afternoon so they could hide away here in this anonymous cafe, when they both know they should be busy elsewhere.

But Mark knows this version of Sebastian well enough to know he should play along. Knows Seb spent last night and this morning working out how this will all go, line-by-line until he was sure enough not to cancel. There was a time when Mark would have enjoyed going off script, would have relished derailing Seb and showing him he can’t always have it his own way. Watched him shutter up and pretend he’s okay with that.

He’s a little bit proud of himself that the temptation isn’t there anymore. He guesses they’ve both grown up.

“Wonder why he’s decided now.” He plays his part, the coffee in his cup getting low enough now he won’t be able to use it as a shield soon.

“He says…um, maybe he thinks it’s a good time?” Mark frowns at the vague answer. The weak coverup.

Seb doesn’t treat him like he does other journalists. Doesn’t treat Jenson that way either or many of the other old drivers, even though they all know he should. It says something about Seb, that despite his lack of caution when it comes to them, they have an unspoken code that says they won’t take advantage of it. They don’t want to be the one that breaks Seb’s trust.

So it’s jarring now, to realise that Seb’s reticence isn’t just the usual unwinding of his thoughts, but more like a wall he’s hiding behind.

Mark wonders if maybe he should have touched his hand after all.

He rests his cup against the table, leans forward and lowers his voice just a little more. “Seb, you know I know about you and Lewis.”

He watches the rise and fall of Seb’s shoulders as he takes a deep breath, the curl of his back as he leans forward too. When Seb finally meets his gaze, his eyes shimmer in the lights, fear pulling his face tight. “I want to come out.”

An old Mark, the version of himself he was in his last year at Red Bull, when he was hurt and scared, finally accepting the end of a dream. When they both had sharp words they knew would draw blood and they used them ruthlessly. That Mark would make a joke; ‘this was you “in” was it, mate?’. He’s glad that Mark is gone.

“Seb…”

“I know it’s not the same. Lewis…Lewis’s name and this.” He waves a hand up and down himself, before planting it back on the table. The tips of his fingers are white, so tightly pressed against the wood. “But, he’s finally doing it and it was such a big decision for him and I’m…I’m tired, Mark.”

And for a moment he looks it. He looks exhausted and weighed down and Mark feels like he’s seeing the ghost of two years ago, when Jenson would call him almost every week to ask if he’d spoken to Seb, if he was okay, ‘has he said anything to you, Mark I’m worried and he’s not talking to me’, when he took a trip to see ‘Nando and between the beers and laughs, his friend had tilted his head and told him he’d be back on the grid the next year, and Mark had better make sure Vettel was too otherwise it wouldn’t be half as much fun. That year when he’d spent half of it with his fists clenched and dreamt of bloody noses and a broken pair of round glasses.

The waitress sweeps by heading for another table, and Seb straightens up, drops his eyes and picks up a mangled straw, and the ghost is gone.

“Have you talked to anyone?” Lewis, he means.

Seb shrugs again, mulish. “I’m talking to you.”

That’s a no then, he thinks, and wishes they were doing this somewhere with alcohol. He also knows there’s another layer to this, another reason Seb is talking to him and not Jenson. Married Jenson who has his children and his very settled life. The parasites will never seriously consider Seb and Jenson, the old pictures will come out and the rumours will reignite and the internet will have its fun, but it won’t make a difference to Jenson and the Buttons. There isn’t anything Jenson’s wife doesn’t know and the vultures will settle on Seb having pined and leave it at that. Seb never was good at hiding his crushes.

But him. Mark knows he won’t escape quite so cleanly. He’s walked his own careful line the last ten years, snipped and pruned away anything that might give too much away. Not always successfully.

Where Jenson and Seb had been something fun and light, a small flame that blew out almost as quickly as it had been lit and didn’t leave any smoke behind, he and Seb had been…complicated.

Complicated leaves its own scars and it’s not flattering that he knows he left as many on Seb as he gained himself.

He doesn’t regret it exactly, not with where they are now, when he’s the one Seb calls. But it was neither of their finest hours.

And that will make one hell of a tabloid story.

But he made his peace with that years ago; he always knew Seb would get here in the end.

People will talk, people always talk but it’s still up to Mark what he says back. He can take his own time with that.

A quick glance around and he does reach for Seb’s hands now. Takes the straw away with a grimace at the chewed ends that makes Seb’s lips twitch. He only holds onto him for a second, squeezing tightly before pressing Seb’s hands back onto the table

He waits until Seb meets his eyes again before smiling. “It’s not up to me, just you.” It’s not up to Lewis either, but; “But you need to speak to Lewis.”

Seb’s sigh stutters near the end. “I know, I just…”

“Seb…if you’re ready, that’s up to you. Do what you want. But if you are…”

“Then I need to talk to Lewis.” He says it like he always used to whenever they reluctantly agreed on something in a meeting with the team. Never quite happy to concede a point. It makes Mark laugh; not everything changes.

“Always said you were brave, mate.” Seb’s cheeks light up, his hands going straight to his ears as he folds into himself, smiling and nervously biting at his lips.

Something else that never changes.

“Not that brave. It’s been-”

“Doesn’t matter how long it’s taken,” he’s quick to cut Seb off. “Only matters that you got here.”

Seb’s hands go to his hair, ruffling the curls and leaving them in a mess. Mark’s hand reaches out to straighten them before he can think better of it.

“Really going for that mountain man look this year.”

Seb sends him a pointed glare, and he rubs at the scruff on his own chin with a shrug. Touché.

He flags the waitress down and orders himself another coffee, asks for a glass of water for Seb with a couple of straws which gets him another glare and Seb folding his arms with a huff.

He looks more relaxed though, hands steady where they grip his upper arms. Like he’s happier now with his decision, even if there’s still more he needs to think about. Mark isn’t worried, once Seb has a plan, he has a way of making the world around him somehow just fit.

“Right, tell me what the car’s like then.”

Seb’s still talking when the waitress drops off their drinks, his arms flapping and fingers plucking at salt shakers and sugar packets as he tries to demonstrate one of the latest changes to the car.

Mark nods along, a smile tucked away again behind his cup. He’s still got a couple of free hours, it’s not a bad way to fill them.

——

It takes a couple of months and a few more calls from Seb. Jenson calls too and Mark can sense him vibrating down the phone line, the kind of childish giddiness only Seb seems to bring out in him.

The story breaks, Aston Martin handling it all with a softness Mark isn’t used to in the sport. He watches the interview and his cheeks ache by the time it’s over. It’s good, Seb looks calm and certain, a little scared but only to those few that know him well enough to see it.

The questions come like he knew they would, the photos and the gossip and he ignores them.

It’s during the next race weekend, when he’s recording the commentary with David that he gets a question he’s finally happy to answer truthfully.

“What do you think of Vettel’s announcement then?”

He looks at the camera tucked into the corner of the booth, smiles because he knows a recording will end up online. “Proud of him.” He says, adds; “proud for him.”

It ends up quoted across the news sites.