#niamh.asks

—

"Hi Sidney," Malkin grins at him. "Like hair today."

Sidney ignores him as Malkin, all lopping gait and smooth strides, skates into position to take his shootout goal. He can't even see Sidney's hair because Sidney has his helmet on, so whatever the heck that means.

Malkin's long legs eat up the distance between them quickly. Sidney watches the grip of his hands on his stick. Malkin snipes the puck over Sidney's shoulder, who is a fraction of the second too late, and Sidney grits his teeth.

"Bye Sid!" Malkin chirps. He does something weird with one of his hands that takes Sidney a moment to figure out is him attempting to wiggle his fingers in some kind of mock wave, thwarted by the bulk of his hockey glove.

"Bro," PK says after, smirking. They won the game, Sidney saving the other two shootout goals that were not done by Malkin. There is a buzzing under his skin.

"Don't," Sidney tells him. PK just laughs, snapping out his towel to catch the back of Sidney's thighs. He makes a completely unnecessary "wuhh-chuk!" noise with his mouth.

"I am not whipped." So much of Sidney's life would be simpler if he didn't blush as easily, he despairs.

—

Sidney dries his hands off on the small towel hanging beside the sink. He is in Mario Lemieux’s downstairs toilet. His chest feels all tight and weird. He presses his palm against the bone of his sternum as if he can flatten the awkward thing inside of him.

“Woah, easy, where fire?” Sidney hears when he yanks open the bathroom door a little too hard.

Malkin grins down at him.

“Malkin,” Sidney says. Every time he sees the Russian off the ice, he is surprised by how tall he is. Even now, slouched against the opposite wall, hands is his jean pockets, jeez, he really is all leg, Malkin towers over Sidney. It is not even that narrow of a hall. This is ridiculous. What is even the point in being that tall?

“Sidney,” Malkin says, smile widening. Sidney never knows what the joke is that Malkin is laughing at.

He breathes in deeply. They are on the same team now and if there is one thing Sidney understands it is teammates. He takes another look at Malkin’s teasing smile, at how easily he waits for Sidney to make the next move, as if he’d stay there until someone came looking for one of them and then longer too, until, maybe, Sidney is ready to move. He exhales.

Don’t be weird, Sidney tells himself.

“Sorry, man, it’s free now,” he offers, stepping aside.

Malkin shrugs, his whole body seeming to move with it. “It’s fine. Not need.”

“Um.” Sidney blinks. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

Sid finds it somewhat unfair when he decides to do his best not to make things weird and the rest of the universe doesn’t seem to get the email.

“I’m, uh, going to go in now.” He gestures vaguely in the direction of the kitchen. He thinks he can smell garlic and tomato. “Dinner is probably nearly ready.”

“Yes, probably.”

Malkin sweeps his hand out in front of him in a dramatic flourish. Despite how much the media puts them up against each other, it is not often that Sidney looks at Malkin and is reminded of Ovechkin. He is now. He thinks about saying this.

It might finally get Sidney a reaction. Shake away this uncertain feeling that Malkin always seems to bring out of him.

Malkin is still smiling, eyebrows raised. His eyes are all soft.

“I’m not sitting next to you,” Sidney tells him. Malkin laughs behind him, a large hand warm sits between Sidney’s shoulder blades for a second as he follows.

“Ah, Sid, Geno found you then, good.” Mario is topping up drinks at the bar cart. Gonch looks over at them and does something with his face that makes Sidney’s stomach feel all squirmy and hot, like he has just been caught skating when he was supposed to be resting.

Malkin is standing very close behind him and has yet to move away.

Gonch raises his eyes upwards, muttering quietly.

“No need for introductions, I suppose,” Mario continues, holding out a drink to Gonch.

“No, I don’t think so,” Gonch says, dry, taking the glass.

Malkin says something sharp then in Russian, stepping around Sidney. Gonch only smiles, sipping at his drink.

—

"Here, Croz." Flower grins up at him from a window seat and shoves his coat off the seat next to him. Sidney hesitates for a moment. With the Habs, he always flew with an empty seat next to him. One of the boys - PK mostly - might come over and chat for a few minutes, but they took off and landed with no one beside Sidney.

New team, new routine, Sidney's mom had mentioned over the summer, spooning out mashed potatoes. Sidney had stoically ignored the over-exaggerated look of shocked horror on Taylor's face behind their mom's back. Adaptability is a mindset.

He stuffs his bag in the overhead, dropping down into the seat Flower had, apparently, saved for him. "Thanks, bud."

Flower shrugs, throwing a vague thumb over his shoulder. "Eh, I figured from what Price has told me the card game back there wasn't much your scene."

Sidney twists in his seat. The plane is pretty much full by now, and there is a handle of guys clustered together near the rear of the plane. Malkin's hands look big, even from here, where he is brandishing a phone in the air, saying something. Sidney thinks Letang might be smiling a little, maybe, he is not quite sure, amused at what looks like Malkin's usual giving out to those around him. From the look on Jordan's face, he is not happy.

"Ah, no," Sidney says, sitting back down. He stretches out his legs in front of him as much as he can, crossed at the ankles. His back clicks faintly. "Not really. I'll play a little, you know, but yeah. Not much."

Flower is looking at him like he knows exactly why Sidney doesn't play much card games, or any games outside of the rink, with the team. Sidney can only imagine the stories Price has told him. PK has an unnerving knack to get Sidney to do what he wants, and there was nothing he found funnier than whipping out his party trick of How Quick Can We Get Sid Annoyed At Losing Something That Literally No One Else Gives A Shit About. Or something.

"What."

Flower only shrugs again, a chesire's cat smile on his face. Sid squints at him. He refuses to let him play Sidney like PK was always able to.

"Nothing, mon ami. Just thinking that we should get you and G to go a round, maybe, could be fun."

Sidney's face must say exactly what he thinks of that. Flower laughs loudly. "No, no, you'll see, if you poke him enough our fearless captain gets all prickly and annoyed. It's great. Lots of fun. I fear you might be perfect for each other."

"That doesn't sound very fun to me," Sidney says.

Flower waves a hand, eyes sharp. "Would I steer you wrong, Sid?"

“Um. Yes.”

Flower laughs again and this time the skin around his eyes crinkles with it. “Good man,” he says, and settles into his seat.

—

Sidney has never asked Malkin if he remembers Latvia. Or. Well, obviously, Malkin remembers playing in Latvia.

He just doesn’t know if Malkin remembers playing against him in Latvia.

Sidney does.

Geno is broader now, more solid on his feet, and when he yells after scoring, knee raised in the air, the sound of him is deeper. It sinks into Sidney’s stomach the same way. Sidney remembers how Ovechkin tucked himself up under Geno’s arm, remembers the strain in their faces, unlined as they were back then. Geno has always been quiet next to Ovechkin’s Ovechkinness — PK is lowkey compared to Ovechkin — but there was something brash about him on the ice. Bold, maybe. It had made Sidney think of a knight, which made Sidney feel silly even as they won. Geno is annoyingly good at making Sidney feel like that, stupid and fluttery. Geno is Geno now.

—

Geno breaks off a corner of banana bread. Sidney opens his mouth to rib him for not even waiting until it was served. The scolding dies in his throat.

Geno is humming, low and quiet, and licking at his index finger and thumb. Sidney watches the pink of his tongue. His stomach has gone all gooey.

“Not bad, Sidney Crosby.” Geno’s tongue pokes out again. Before this, Sidney thought he was gaining an immunity to the sight of it teasing him but it looks like that plan has been set back at least a few months.

“Uhm.” Sidney clears his throat. There is a crumb on Geno’s bottom lip. Jeez. “Yeah. Thanks, bud. Cool.”

Geno hums again. A grown man should not be able to make that sound, he is not a tiger that can purr. Sidney thinks about putting his ear to the muscle under Geno’s collarbone and getting him to do it again. His ears burn.

“Think, no. Maybe more like sweet, yes, Sid? Is cake.”

The warm bubble in Sidney’s stomach bursts and spreads through him. He rolls his eyes, groaning, "Oh for — it is not cake. It's banana bread."

—

To this day, Connor doesn't know where the want to lift the Stanley Cup and the knowing that he did — there, here, somewhere — and the thinking that he can ends and he begins.

—

It turns out Leon Draisaitl is like the cup. Connor still doesn't know what to do about that.

—

“Careful with Draisaitl, yeah, kid? Little shit can hit hard when he wants to, and you’re, like, all knees.”

Connor swallows. He hears himself say, “Yeah, thanks. Will do.”

He doesn’t say, “Leo would never hit me, what? Don’t say that, don’t say that. Don’t.”

He doesn’t say, “Leon Draisaitl doesn’t play for the Flames, he’s an Oiler, and I’m his teammate, and so are you, and I’m his captain, and I’m his friend, and I’m his —”

—

Leo — Draisaitl — doesn’t slam him into the boards. He doesn’t say or do anything to Connor except steal the puck out from under him when Connor falters, seeing the wrong colour jersey on him in the corner of his eye. Connor is still blinking that away when Leon scores. 

“Good game,” Connor says after, annoyingly breathless. Leon Draisaitl bumps his gloved hand against his, eyebrows raised behind his visor. He is cute now, even sweaty and steely eyed, but he will grow more handsome when he’s older, Connor knows. Connor hopes this doesn’t show on his face. He hopes everything doesn’t show on his face. 

“Sure,” Leo says. He is smiling slightly. 

Draisaitl, Connor reminds himself. Draisaitl. Draisaitl. Draisaitl. 

—

Nuge is solid and plays on Connor’s left wing more often than he doesn’t. As the years go by, the urge to tell him that the second line, the centre, is his, all his, fades a little. He only sometimes teases Connor for his ‘Connorisms’ as Nursey likes to call him.

Nursey, on the other hand, has a patented What The Fuck, Connor Face. He coined it himself. 

We will kill them, Nursey likes to say before games with rookies or newer players. 

No, we won’t, Connor has to say after. Just play your game, listen, and we’ll have a good one.

Kill them dead, Nursey vows, serious before he cracks up. 

Ignore him though, Connor says, shoving him away, and the new guys always laugh.

—

Somewhere, there is a Connor McDavid who says, Leo will always find me. I can be a thing that no one can see, not ever, and he will be able to find me. Leo won’t even have to try.

Or something like that.

That somewhere is not here.

Here, Leon Draisaitl plays for the Calgary Flames. Here, Leon is not Leo. Here, Leon has never been Leo.

Connor quietly rages. He plays hockey. The Edmonton Oilers lose in Round One. The Edmonton Oilers don’t make it to the playoffs. And they don’t make it. And again. The Edmonton Oilers lose in Round Three. Commentary says that Connor plays the best hockey of his life.

They say, look at him go! Man, I could watch McDavid play all day when he’s really got going. No one can match him, no one can skate with him. One man strike force, for sure.

—

Connor is always careful to use his fake account when going through Leon’s instagram page. He never likes anything but just in case. cr87sby_2010 can pop up on a Leon Draisaitl post from seven years ago but Connor McDavid can’t. 

Leon was somewhere warm this summer, the softness of his hips where his navy swim trunks rode down pale against his chest and back. Connor doesn’t recognise any of the guys he is with but they are making him smile open mouthed in a few of the photos. Connor has never even heard this Leon laugh. 

Matts: dude plz tell me your not training in fucking edmonton this summer

Matts: AGAIN

Connor: Joke is on you. I’m at Sid’s for August.

Matts: ill call off the mitchy intervention then

Matts: 👍

Connor: Block my number.

Connor: Tell Mitch to lose it too.

Matts: 👍

—

He walks around feeling bruised from the inside. He dreams most nights. 

The Edmonton Oilers lose games and they win some, and Connor wins and wins awards but keeps losing the cup. He doesn’t know what he will do if he wins the cup without Leon. He doesn’t know what he will do if he never wins the cup.

Once, after a really bad year, Connor got so drunk he knocked over a table at the club they were at. He hates breaking other people’s things, but looking down, he had only laughed. 

“Yeah, for sure time to go, Cap,” Nuge had said, hand on Connor’s elbow. Connor had folded himself into him a little. 

“You’re really awesome, Nuge,” Connor had told him, standing out on the footpath as they waited for a taxi. “Just, you know. So great.”

“Uhuh.” Nuge’s hand was on his shoulder now. Connor had leaned against it, feeling the push back.

“I am trying to win,” Connor told Nuge, or tried to. “I know he’s not here, but I am trying to win anyway. I swear.”

Nuge had only squinted at him and said something about getting Connor some water when they got home, and that he was good, doing good, in that voice of his that is ridiculously like the one he has with his kids.

—

The second time Ekblad gets called up to the Oilers, he sticks around. It takes Connor an awfully long, too long, time to be able to look at him. It wasn’t supposed to be him.

Ekky doesn’t ever seem to mind. 

He is always saying things like, what can I do, and what do you need, and oh my god, Connor, are you being for real, you can NOT wear that fucking shirt, you look like someone’s dying grandad. 

One time, Connor is skating down the ice, flying, and Reinhart comes out from the side, flattening him. There had been a lot of yelling and Connor remembers blinking up at the rink’s ceiling. His brain had rattled around his skull all the way to the exam room. When he came back for the third period, the medics threatening to strap him to the bench if needed, Ekky had nodded at him before jumping over the boards. There had been blood down the left side of his cheek later when he was shoved into the penalty box but there had been more on his gloves and Reinhart’s face.

—

“Hey, Connor.” Leon’s face is more lived in now. Those laugh lines could’ve been because of Connor once. Connor smiles helplessly back, watching the curve of Leon’s mouth.

He blinks when Leon turns to Bedsy. Are his ears a little pink? Connor wonders if it’s weird if he tried to get closer to take a better look. Probably.

“And hi, Kid Connor.” Is Connor imagining Leon’s smile being less soft now? He needs to leave this situation immediately. Leon’s t-shirt pulls tight across his shoulders and his fingers are long where he is pushing his hair back. God.

“Hilarious,” Bedsy says, huffing. 

Leon shrugs. You don’t even need that many muscles for hockey, what the hell. “I thought so.”

“Congrats on the games,” Leon says to Connor. He tilts his head to the side a little like a cat. Connor swallows. 

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“I would say cheat, because you were the one who made them ‘harder’, but I think I saw you break a sweat out there.” Leon grins. “Just a small one, of course.” 

“Yeah,” Connor manages to laugh a little. “Um. Luck? Hah, they were fun though.”

There is a pink mark just under Leon’s left jaw, like he scratched himself shaving. Connor feels slightly ashamed noticing it. 

“Yeah, sure. You looked good out there.” Leon definitely just looked at his mouth. Maybe. Possibly. Connor wills himself not to look over at Bedsy to see if he picked up on that too. 

“Thanks, you, you too. Of course.” It was smoother when Leon said it.

Leon is still smiling at him so maybe it doesn’t matter that much. 

“Thanks.” Leon looks at them both. “Kid Connor. Connor. See you around.”

“Um, wow,” Bedsy says, eyes a little wide, when Leon has walked away. “That was, wow.”

“Yeah.” Connor thinks about crouching down over the face-off dot, the way his feet feel in his skates, and something buzzing in him settles. “I know.”

“I mean, like, wow, man.”

“I got it.”

Bedsy grins at him. Connor rolls his eyes. “Don’t even start, Kid Connor.”

“That was just his way of calling you old,” Bedsy shouts after him.

—

“I was supposed to have a Malkin,” Connor tries instead, desperate. He had thought this was a dream. He had thought this was just something else that he didn’t get.

One time when he was small, he heard his dad tell his mom that he thought it was kinda weird that Connor never had an imaginary friend or something like that, and, hah, isn’t that weird too? That I think it’s weird that he doesn’t have one? What a kid.

His mom had only hummed.

I mean, his dad had kept going. He’s on his own all the time, and you’ve seen him, he gets lonely, I know he does.

Yeah, his mom had said eventually, he does, I think. But, I also think, he’s got hockey. That’s his made up friend, so. I’m not worried about that.

A different Connor had a Leo and that was fine, that was how it was. But what if, what if this Connor had a Leo too and Sid didn’t but whatever he did changed things? What if the Leon here was supposed to have Connor?

Sid stares back at him like they are taking a face off. He could be blue-tacked up on Connor’s wall again, only older.

“I was,” Connor tries again. He stares at his shaking hands. Weird, he thinks, and feels like his eyes itch.

“I don’t know anything about what you’re supposed to have or not, bud,” Sid says, face finally giving a little. It is not guilt, Connor knows, but he can tell Sid is lying all the same.

He stayed for you, Connor thinks. That is what they all say. Evgeni Malkin stayed for Sidney Crosby. What did you do? He doesn’t say this out loud but Sid seems to hear it all the same.

Connor understands a little better why some people hate God.

2.

“You look happy.” Guanyu gives Valtteri a light nudge in the ribs.

Valtteri shrugs, mouth tipping up a little at the corner. His shorts ride up as he leans back in his seat. His tan line is very stark.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Uh.” Guanyu frowns. He peers at him closely. Valtteri’s eyes look clear and coherent. “Because Sebastian accused Fernando of impeding his qualifying last weekend and is still asking for a penalty. And there was the whole,” he waves his hand here. “Near crash thing in practice, with Lewis too.”

“Hmm.” Valtteri’s face stays serene. Guanyu hates him a bit. He is more confused.

“All of this. And we are going into the briefing with them now. Where they talk with no cameras.”

“Mmm.”

“They kept us stuck for five hours last race.”

“Mhmm.”

If Valtteri hums again, Guanyu might actually lose it.

He narrows his eyes. Tilts his head to the right. Valtteri lets him push his jaw so he can see the side of his head.

“You have AirPods in,” he says, incredulous.

Valtteri blinks at him slowly, eyes glittering.

“What are you listening to?”

“This wildlife podcast I was recommended,” Valtteri shrugs.

Guanyu considers this for a moment. He looks over at the other side of the room. Sebastian has brought notes. Lewis is sitting the row in front, jaw set, shoulders loose. Fernando is already glaring.

“Give me one,” Guanyu tells Valtteri. Valtteri laughs quietly, handing him a bud.

The briefing drags on for hours. Sebastian brings out visual aids at point when no one agrees to acting out his demonstration for him. Valtteri turns up the volume — the podcaster has a very deep calm voice and he talks and talks and talks about the hibernation differences between different kinds of bears — when the shouting starts.

3.

After China, Sebastian asks about New York.

"I've never been, you know."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Man, you're missing out. New York is great."

The Mercedes black still looks strange on Sebastian. Lewis hasn't asked him how he is finding having Bono as a race engineer. He doesn't pretend things aren't how they really are much anymore, but he is letting himself have this one thing.

"I have heard great things," Sebastian tells him, and he is doing that heavy thing with his face that makes Lewis think maybe he isn't talking about New York. The back of neck feels hot.

After Japan, Sebastian asks about Colorado.

"Yeah, it's a nice place to just chill out in. I've got it all set up and fitted for everything you'd want, the kitchen is great, oh my god, and the woods go on forever, you know? It's just, just quiet."

"Quiet is good."

"Yeah."

"My place in Switzerland is quiet."

"Yeah? I'll have to check it out sometime, then."

"You will. And I will see yours. We could compare."

After Bahrain, Sebastian asks about Geneva.

"Okay, there is no way you haven't been to Geneva, Seb, pull the other one. You live in Switzerland, seriously."

After Jeddah, Sebastian asks about Kensington.

"London is London, man. There's no other way to describe it."

"Hmm, I see. I know a thing or two about this kind of thing."

"This kind of thing?"

"Yes, you know, when there is no words for it. When it is too big for that."

"Sebastian Vettel...at a loss for words...hey, HEY! Is that a flying pig? Ow, SEB, c'mon, stop, I'm MESSING!"

After Miami, Sebastian asks about Milan.

"How are you finding it?"

"I mean, it's Milan. It's gorgeous. Can you not like Milan? Is that a thing people can even do?"

It is only at Monza, when Sebastian brings up Monaco that Lewis realises what he is putting at Lewis's feet.

4.

“Lewis.”

“Ted.”

Lewis’s eyes smile at the camera, eyelashes long, and blinks slow and languid. He is only wearing one chain and his braids are pulled back.

“Not a bad run today, how’re you feeling?”

“Good, good, man, yeah.” Lewis sips at his straw. “The car was great — um, real fast on the straights which was nice, y’know?”

“Yeah, it looked fast. I think your speed there was faster than Sebastian, right? Is that right?”

Lewis hums. “Mhmm, think so. He’s still got an edge over us in quali though, so we’re still in it.”

“And Fernando is there too, of course. That Redbull isn’t exactly slow either.”

“And Fernando. Of course.”

Lewis blinks slowly. He smiles. There are still faint balaclava marks along the curve of his cheeks.

“Yes, yeah, and there was — I, sorry.” Ted audibly sniffs. And then: a loud inhale.

“I have to say, Lewis, you smell fantastic. Is that new?”

Lewis laughs, ducking his head. His hand comes up to the back of his neck. He pulls on one ear. “Yes! Man, I didn’t think anyone would notice, t’be honest. Just thought it'd be a nice change, yeah? You like it then?"

Behind him, Fernando walks by, herded to his next interview. His Redbull polo is loose around his neck. He pauses just before he goes off camera, and sniffs.

"I do, I do. What's it, smells like a flower."

Lewis's smile is a gentle thing. Fernando sneezes violently three times in quick succession, and curses loudly.

"Close. It's peach."

5.

"I will give you fifty euros to push him off."

Lewis looks at him out of the corner of his eye.

"No."

"A hundred."

Lewis thinks about this. "Still a no."

Sebastian's frown is overly exaggerated, mouth turned comically down.

“You used to be fun, you know. Jenson told me.”

Lewis can’t help but laugh at that. “No way he said that, man.”

Fernando squints at them, suspicious, from across the drivers parade truck. He is sitting perched on the railing. Carlos chatters away at his elbow.

“Eh.” Sebastian shrugs. There are more lines around his eyes than there used to be. Lewis watched them smile their way into his skin. There are few faces Lewis knows better. “Maybe, maybe not.”

Jenson is one of Lewis’s preferred teammates, then and now, and they laughed more than they didn’t, but Lewis wouldn’t have called it — or him — fun.

“Sure,” Lewis says, humouring him.

“Dinner tonight?” Sebastian asks him. He waggles his eyebrows. “I know a place.”

They are racing in Monza. Lewis is sure he does. Neither one of them are stupid enough to eat out here.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Mmm, yeah.” Sebastian’s eyes are bright. He is leaning into Lewis’s space, shoulders bumping. Lewis sways with him. Just a little. “You’ll like it. Very cozy. Quiet. Has a bed. A couch too. Great room service.”

“Woah, you’re really selling it there.”

Sebastian laughs. “I could probably score us matching robes too.”

Lewis bites at the inside of his cheek. They are racing in Monza. There is no way Lewis is being left alone, with nothing to do, until at least midnight.

“Sounds perfect.”

Sebastian will always be a Ferrari driver. They don’t talk about it much anymore, but Lewis knows he knows.

“It will keep,” he says, quiet, still smiling.

“After,” Lewis says.

Sebastian pushes his curls out of his eyes. “After.”

There is a long pause. Lewis thinks about Sebastian asking after all the places Lewis sleeps, all the places where Lewis retreats to, all the places where Lewis has built walls for and decorated. Lewis thinks about Sebastian, earlier, asking him about Monaco.

"Have you been asking me out on dates in my own homes?"

Sebastian laughs, looking stupidly young. "Took you long enough."

"Took me - Seb, who does that, you're, oh my god, you're impossible!" Lewis turns away so Sebastian won't see his smile.

+1.

Netflix: Drive To Survive (S7 E04 - Comeback Again) 

[00:05:14]

Notification sounds play as screenshots of tweets and Instagram comments appear on screen. 

[Blow-up Graphic that reads: VETTEL VS HAMILTON CHAMPIONSHIP TITLE FIGHT: BUTTON SAYS: OH GOD]

INT. INTERVIEW ROOM

ALONSO is sitting on a chair in front of a black background. He is not smiling.

BUXTON: So. Lewis winning his eighth title. That was a real nail biter of a race, huh? You got caught up in the bit of a mess at the start.

ALONSO: You say.

BUXTON: Uh. Right, okay. Yeah. I mean — you did.

ALONSO: Okay.

BUXTON: What.

ALONSO stares at the camera.

BUXTON: Uhm, hah, alright then. Let's talk about this year, what it was like seeing Vettel and Hamilton fight for the title again? Been a while, huh?

I kind of like ‘The RedBull’ actually. I think it suits me, Sebastian had said, grinning. The lens in his mask were coloured a deep red. They glowed in the shadows of the billboard advertising: HOME AND BUSINESS INSURANCE — FIRE, WEATHER AND SUPE DAMAGE — COMPETITIVE RATES AVAILABLE.

People know what to expect, he had continued, pausing. He shifted his hips lewdly. Lewis had raised an eyebrow at him, not looking down. Sebastian’s grin got bigger. I mean my horns, of course, he said, pointing at his spiked helmet.

Okay, Red, Lewis had rolled his eyes.

Red BULL, Sebastian had called after him as Lewis jumped down to the streets below.

“I’m good, thanks. Arms up, and you’re going to have to actually take your shirt off properly this time.” Red Lion refused to remove his undershirt, had just ripped it around the hole in his side, and said: There, enough room for your cute little stitches, can I have a lollipop too?

Red Lion tilts his head. The shape of his skull sits weirdly with Lewis. He ignores it. He ignores most things to do with Red Lion.

“I told you I don’t put out on the first date. I’m not like those heroes you hang around with, you know, I have self respect.”

Lewis laughs, startled, and then falters. He can’t see the other man’s eyes, his mask covers everything bar his mouth and chin. Lewis rubs at the space between his eyes with a thumb, his own mask a comforting weight.

“Fine, sure, whatever you want. Your funeral.”

He throws the medical supplies at him. Red Lion doesn’t even try to catch them. They bounce off his kevlar vest and land in his lap.

“Would you go?”

“What?” Lewis looks up from where he had been packing away his med-kit. Red Lion has his undershirt back on, the fabric sitting awkwardly over the bulk of the bandages underneath.

“To my funeral. Would you go?”

“I —” Lewis has been crime-fighting in a mask, in a variety of colours, for nearly twenty years now. There have been more funerals than he cares to remember. He hadn’t even cried at Sebastian’s, years before.

Alonso’s seventh anniversary was last week. It wouldn’t be the first time Lewis had gone to mourn someone he fought against.

“I don’t know,” he decides on. It is a weak answer. Lewis can’t shake the feeling that Red Lion knows this and is letting him have it.

Fuck you, Lewis thinks.

“Would you want me to go?” he asks, furious out of nowhere. It shakes the tiredness from him momentarily.

“Ah, I think so,” Red Lion smiles thinly. “But I am a very selfish person.” He rubs at his mouth with the hand that doesn’t carry the broken fingers. Lewis had noticed he was completely hairless there when he set his fingers earlier.

“Would you speak at it?”

Lewis stares at him. “Sure, if you want, man, yeah. Cool.”

“Cool.” Another anaemic smile.

Lewis hadn’t said a word at Nico’s, not his civilian one nor his caped. Sebastian had been unmasked before he was killed. Lewis Hamilton hadn’t spoken but Indigo Lantern had.

#GOODFRIENDBETTERMAN had trended for two weeks straight. Lewis had jumped onto the first deep space mission he had found by day three and not returned for four months.

“So convinced you’ll die before me?” Lewis asks, the question coming out before he could think about it.

Red Lion laughs at that. There is that feeling again — the same one from when he first popped up on Lewis’s radar nine months ago, and Lewis was sure he knew him from somewhere.

2.

There are stories — old ones — that one hears over the years.

Stories of those who don’t meet their soulmates properly in life, and so join them in death.

Sebastian used to love stories.

When he opens his eyes after going into the wall too fast and too hard, he is standing beside Lewis Hamilton.

Lewis is talking to Ted, the camera on. His eyes are shadowed and his shoulders are curved slightly inwards.

When he sees Sebastian next to him, he startles, mouth falling open. “I — You.”

“Lewis?” Ted is frowning, concerned. “Are you alright?” He has a hand up as if to tell the cameraman to get ready to stop rolling. Or to zoom in on Lewis’s face. Sebastian isn’t sure.

“Um.” Lewis blinks, swallowing. He glances at Ted and then back at Sebastian.

Never let it be said that Sebastian isn’t ever helpful.

“He can’t see me, I think,” Sebastian says, and then mimes a blowjob with his hand and mouth, tongue in cheek, in front of Ted, who doesn’t stop staring at Lewis.

“Right, yeah,” Lewis says, as shakey as Sebastian has ever heard him. “Um.”

“Funny story,” Sebastian says, furious. He wants his dad. He stays looking into Lewis’s tired shocked face. He thinks if he sees his mom, he will never be able to stop crying “Turns out we are soulmates.”

“Lewis, you okay? Do you need a minute?”

Lewis inhales. Sebastian can see him visibly remember there is a camera on him. When he smiles, it is a thin slight of a thing.

“Sorry, man, what was your question again?”

3.

Lewis gets more curled in on himself as the year goes on, face thin. Quieter too. Him and Nico snap and snap at each other’s heels. Toto nearly has a stroke keeping them from biting.

Sebastian is self aware enough to know that he is not helping. That his commentary — one sided that it is as no one other than Lewis can hear him and Lewis rarely responds, not through words nor expressions — is only making things worse for him.

He can’t bring himself to care.

It drives the cold away a little. That short spark of satisfaction and victory when he pokes and pokes and pokes and Lewis keeps a straight face through it all.

Sometimes, if Lewis breaks, either in a flinch or an aborted eye roll, or god forbid, a laugh, then Sebastian can even make himself pretend that he is still alive.

“I have a question,” Sebastian declares. He is standing over by the window, looking out at the paddock.

Lewis ignores him.

Nico is saying something in response to James Allison. He looks tense. The entire room looks tense. Sebastian rolls his shoulders.

“Did you stop fucking Nico before I died, or do you only not like exhibitionism? I could leave if you want privacy.”

This makes Lewis look at him. It is a quick glance, cutting and sarcastic, eyebrows slightly raised. He somehow manages to look pissed and amused and embarrassed, all at the same time.

Sebastian smiles sunnily at him. It is often exhausting to be around Lewis, especially when he is like this. Lewis might be quiet, packed in tightly, but he spills over most of the time. No one can ever accuse him of being small.

“You are right, I guess,” Sebastian muses thoughtfully. “I would not leave you alone. I would be too bored.”

Nico wins. Nico retires. Lewis disappears home for the break. Sebastian follows his brother around for a few months, chattering at him, even though Fabian doesn’t ever respond. It’s not that different from before if he is being honest.

There is a Lewis light in his chest, always pulling. It’s not that bad of a sore, Sebastian reasons. Only a little achey.

4.

Formula One has started back up again when Sebastian follows the tug back to Lewis.

Lewis doesn’t say anything at Sebastian’s sudden appearance in the garage. His shoulders relax slightly though when Sebastian makes a quick quip about Valtteri’s blond — Seriously, Lewis, Sebastian thinks, half fond — hair.

He looks less like a scrunched up tissue someone used to blow their nose with. Sebastian tells him this. He catches Lewis’s badly smothered eye roll in the sleek reflective black of Mercedes’ desks.

He even makes Lewis laugh, startled, when he asks him if he managed to get laid while Sebastian was gone.

“So,” Niki says, sitting down beside Lewis in his motorhome. Lewis hums, pulling out his earbuds. Sebastian is slumped on the floor, back against the opposite wall. They’re waiting to be called for the post practise debrief.

“So.”

The half grin, all teeth and eyes squishing up, that Lewis sends Niki reminds Sebastian of Formula Three. His fingers itch for a steering wheel.

“Are you going to introduce me to your soulmate anytime before I die?”

Lewis goes very still. Stupidly, damningly, his eyes dart to Sebastian before he looks back at Niki.

Niki raises his eyebrows. He, eerily, manages to look Sebastian directly in the eyes. Sebastian waves. Just in case.

Niki’s expression doesn’t change.

Sebastian’s exhale could be a laugh.

“Well?” Niki nudges. “I am not getting older, you know?”

“Jesus, Nik,” Lewis says, automatically, like it’s rote. “I’ve told you. Stop making those jokes.”

“You’re the one who calls me ‘old man’.”

“It’s a term of endearment!”

Niki stares at him down. For the first time in Sebastian’s life — and death — he watches as Lewis Hamilton gives in.

“I don’t need to introduce you. You already know him.”

“Knew him,” Sebastian corrects. Lewis ignores him.

Niki watches Lewis for a moment longer. Lewis, resolutely, refuses to look away.

“This is ridiculous,” Sebastian informs him.

“Hello, Sebastian,” Niki says, and for the second time in not even five minutes, Sebastian wonders if Niki can see him. He doesn’t bother waving this time but it is a little freaky.

“I hate you,” Lewis tells him, sulkily.

“Yes,” Niki says, patting him on the shoulder. “I know.”

“How did you know?”

Sebastian isn’t sure if Lewis is asking how Niki knew that Lewis had a dead soulmate or how he knew that dead soulmate was Sebastian.

“Hmm, last year, you were weird. Weirder after Sebastian. Not how Nigel was, with Elio, or Michael, with Aryton.” Niki doesn’t take his eyes off of Lewis. His voice and face is softer than Sebastian has ever heard or seen. “Just. Weird. And still too, after Nico left.”

Lewis swallows thickly. “Right.”

“Some of me hoped.” Niki stops. He looks over at where Lewis looked earlier, when he is steadily refusing to look now. “When James died, I looked out for him.”

He shrugs. There is something hanging heavy in his face. “We knew each other too well in life, maybe. Or that was all the time we were given. More than most.”

“Yeah.”

Lewis meets Sebastian’s eyes. Sebastian looks back at him.

“And,” Niki says. He reaches a hand behind them and raps on the wall. “These are a bit thin too. I heard you talking to someone, once or twice.”

“Fuck off,” Lewis laughs. He scrubs an open palm down his face.

Niki reaches over to pat his cheek firmly. “You are sleeping better, this is good. Keep it up.”

“Aye, cap’n,” Lewis says dryly.

5.

Jenson: you cheatying slag

Jenson: i knoiw 4 a FACT that you dont know all the wdcs off by heart

Jenson: usinh seb as your own fuckinh wiki is wrong

Jenson: always knew you were a cheater aty your core. fernando warned me about you LOL

2.

The first time Sebastian meets Lewis, his runners are wet with Michael’s blood and Lewis’s hands are pressing his head into the glass door. His face aches, nose throbbing.

“Can I help you?” he says, or tries to say. It comes out vaguely smushed.

He pushes back a little just to see. Lewis lets him move half an inch before shoving him back.

“Jesus, Hamilton,” Sebastian hears Michael say. His voice cracks roughly. Sebastian nearly cried when the doctor told him Michael survived the surgery, that they got all the bullets out and he was in recovery. He swallows thickly, as the relief makes him all dizzy even now. “I know you got out today but c’mon, let him go. This is Sebastian — I talked about him.”

The hands on Sebastian’s neck disappear and he’s rubbing at his jaw when he turns around. “Ow,” Seabastian tells Michael. His cheeks are pale and his chest is wrapped in white bandages but his eyes are alert and he is grinning.

“Sebastian, this is Lewis Hamilton. Lewis, Sebastian Vettel. Mika says we are all friends here.”

He pats Mika’s ankle that is propped up on the bed beside his hip. Mika’s eyes stay closed, arms folded in his chair, chin on his chest. There are dark bruises under his eyes under now.

“Right. If Mika says so.”

Lewis steps back towards Michael’s bed, grabbing the duffle bag from where it was leaning against the wall. Sebastian looks at his bare arms, the tattoos that go all the way down to his fingers, the rings there. His jeans sit low on his hips. He needs a shave. Sebastian recognises him from his mugshot, even of his hair is longer now and his face is more lined.

They hadn’t had the time to arrange for Michael to share a cell with someone affiliated with them, and when they had got in contact with him, a week later, he had settled in well enough with his cell mate. By Michael standards at least.

Does not talk much, Michael had told Sebastian over the phone. Likes his fucking singing though. Stares at the picture of his dog. Do you think he is lonely?

When Sebastian had brought it up with Mika, the best person for this kind of thing when Corinna is away, Mika had only shrugged, and told him that he doesn’t think it is just Hamilton that is lonely, and that of fucking course anyone who could survive nine weeks in solitary with just Fernando Alonso as company in the next cell over is someone that Michael would find interesting.

Sebastian looks away from the breadth of Lewis’s shoulders in his white tank and pulls a face at Michael’s waggling eyebrows.

3.

“How old do you think I am?” Jenson asks, as Alex adjusts his long-rifle until it sits comfortably against his shoulder, supported by the flat roof they are lying on. 

Alex doesn’t answer, because he knows exactly how old Jenson is, and the fact that people continue to tell Jenson to his face that he looks ten years older than his actual age will never stop being funny.

“Ollie, how old do you think I am?” Jenson calls.

“Jen, leave the kid alone,” Alex says. “You could dye your hair.”

“Do I look like a man who would dye his hair solely to stave off questions about his age?”

“Yes,” Alex sweeps the street below them, marking the buildings bracketing the shop they are surveilling. “Ollie, how are you doing over there?”

He can hear him scramble around for a second before a burst of static. “Radio ready for orders, sir.”

Alex grimaces, still not used to that, as Jenson only laughs beside him.

4.

“Michael? We got him.” Eddie leans back against the closed door.

Michael hums, closing his leather notebook. He leaves his fountain pen tucked into the middle so he remembers what month of intakes he was going over.

“Send him in.”

The kid’s hair is long and dirty, falling into his eyes and around his ears. His knees are all busted up under his baggy shorts. His face is drawn and thin, and he is glaring at Michael, jaw clenched.

He goes all pale when he sees who sits in front of him. Seems like he didn’t know whose car it was.

“Jesus,” Michael says. “You’re tiny, how did you reach the pedals?”

This morning, the kid — Sebastian Vettel, Michael had asked around — had hot wired Michael’s car in under two minutes and driven away. Michael had watched from the restaurant’s window, amused and impressed.

Mika had been decidedly less so when Michael told him, ten minutes later, that they were going to have to order a cab.

“I’m not that short!” The glare intensifies. His eyes are kind of freaky, Michael thinks. Very big and bright.

Michael holds out a hand, level with his chest, and squints. He lowers it considerably. Sebastian looks like he wants to bite it.

“Of course not,” Michael tells him soothingly. Eddie gives him a reproachful look. Michael holds back his eyeroll but takes his hand out of reach of Sebastian’s mouth.

“I have a job for you,” Michael says, watching Sebastian’s eyes sharpen. He smiles thinly. “If you’re up for it.”

“A job. For me? What kind of job?” Sebastian tilts his head to the side, making his eyes wide. His curls tumble across his forehead. The whole effect is rather sweet, Michael considers, delighted. This will be interesting.

Mika has been nagging at Michael to stop picking up strays but he thinks he will agree with Michael on this one.

5.

Michael stretches out his back, legs interlocked at the ankles, until something clicks along his spine. He exhales slowly, sinking back into the shitty mattress.

They called for lights out fifteen minutes ago. Lewis is still in the bunk above him. Michael looks at the scratches across the metal rods. He had a good workout today, no interruptions, and his arms are nicely sore.

Seventeen minutes.

Lewis moves in his bed, rolling over to the right and for a moment, Michael thinks he will roll right off the edge, but then he is swinging down, silent. Michael holds himself very still.

"I am not interested in fucking."

"Yeah," Lewis says. "I heard."

Michael swallows. The sharpened edge of Lewis's plastic spoon presses into his throat. Lewis is dense and solidly heavy, knees on either side of his hips, one foot digging into his knee.

Michael has seen him fight. In an enclosed space like this, and unarmed, he isn't sure who would come out the better. His fingers itch with excitement.

"I found the picture you left," Lewis says quietly. The spoon doesn't move an inch. His eyes gleam in the dark like an animal.

"Okay," Michael says, not bothering to pretend not to know what he is talking about.

Lewis was fine this morning. He hummed to himself the entire way to breakfast, and he spotted Michael in the gym without even being asked. It wasn't until after dinner that he went all weird and still in himself.

Lewis presses down, just a little. Michael raises an eyebrow.

"Is he alive?" Lewis asks like he doesn't want to show his hand but is doing so anyway. His mouth trembles at the corners. Michael frowns at him. He has seen Lewis hustle in the yard at card games enough times to know that his poker face is better than this.

"Is he."

Oh. Jesus.

Michael laughs. It is too loud of a sound for where they are. He laughs anyway.

"You have issues," he tells Lewis, who only sends him a cutting look.

"That was supposed to make you feel better! Stop crying and all. You miss him, yes? Thought I could help."

Lewis stares at him. Blinks those animal eyes.

Michael makes a frustrated sound in the back of his mouth. He misses Mika. He never has to talk when Mika is around.

"He is being taken care of in that shelter you put him in. I had my people check. I was being nice! Friendly too!"

"We're friends," Lewis says slowly as if he expects Michael to say no.

"Obviously. You are being ridiculous," Michael says. "You think I would kill a dog? No!" He is a little hurt.

"You are the chief suspect in fifteen open murders," Lewis says, flat.

"Not of dogs!"

Lewis looks at him for a long moment before rolling his eyes. "How are you still alive, man? For real? I thought it was a threat."

He pushes off Michael and pulls himself up onto the top bunk, as silent as he climbed down at the start.

"No one else would see this as a bad thing."

He can hear Lewis roll his eyes.

"Literally every other person here would think you were sending a message. And not a good one."

"I was being nice!"

There is a clang of metal against metal, and their cell bars rattle. "Oi! You two! Shut the fuck up. Save the fighting or fucking for the morning."

"Gross, man," Lewis says, and Michael kicks at the underside of his bunk. "You are gross."

Maybe Mika was right when he said that Lewis might not take his generosity in the way he wanted it, Michael considers. He decides not to tell him. He would be too smug if he did.

He palms the sharpened spoon that Lewis had held to his neck and left on his pillow, beside his cheek. It is small and narrow. Michael presses his thumb against the slice, feeling it. He smiles, and tucks it under his sheet. He had needed a new one.

+1.

Sebastian had been small when Michael met him. All eyes and bony knees and dirty hair.

Then he opened up his mouth and his personality crawled out.