#vignettes

His teammate gapes at him owlishly, like he’s not the one who knocked in the first place. Lewis can’t fathom why he’s even here, when they’ve both received and been given overwhelming praise about their results. They’re not exactly close enough to celebrate privately either; he’d last texted Charles a quick congratulations in Melbourne, and before that, an invitation for a game on chess.com to kill time before press. His pupils are crazy dilated, Lewis realizes, just in time as Charles breaks his vacuous gaze to instead bore a hole in the sliver of Lewis’ exposed chest, between the folds of deep red satin. It feels like they’re operating on two different clocks—as if hours pass by between every one of Charles’ honey-eyed blinks and soft puffs of breath that take mere seconds.

Lewis should call him out on it. He doesn’t. Instead, he casts his thoughts elsewhere, wondering if his mum’s asleep yet, whether Max the Colorado cow has been fed, how there’s a strand of hair tickling him at the back of his neck that he needs to brush. Anything to avoid watching Charles bite his lower lip thoughtfully, searching for God-knows-what in Lewis’ expression like they’re the only characters in a dream. Are they going to just look at each other all night?

Charles huffs, finally. And then he groans, “It is not fair,” and Lewis wishes he’d stayed quiet, because what the fuck. 

His blissful day was being ruined to, what, discuss the race? Debate team orders? Fairness is not something he thought he’d have to drudge up with Charles, someone he respects for his ability to cleanly race while holding onto uncompromising, selfish ambition. If his teammate thinks he’s going to apologize for dancing around at knife’s edge, then maybe Charles is indeed dreaming.

He begins to close the door, but Charles sticks his foot through, grumbling like Lewis is the one throwing a pity party with flushed cheeks and pleading puppy eyes. Now that he’s up close, the stench of alcohol intermingles with some sophisticated floral scent, clashing with the earthy spray Lewis has meticulously picked for his room. He pulls on the door a little harder this time, but his years of experience contentiously turning a teammate away from his home have no effect against Charles’ inebriated stubbornness.

“It is not fair,” Charles repeats, slower this time, like he’s waiting for Lewis to catch the punchline. Lewis doesn’t appreciate being beaten to it. “It is not fair that you do not help me at all after causing such problems.”

Fucking hell. This road is one he’s traveled before, filled with trite phrases like problems and making it easy for everyone before boiling over into something more direct, more biting. 2026 is the new 2016, is it? Lewis decides meditation is no longer on the table tonight. “What problems,” he grits out, smile intact, “did I cause you?”

Charles does not grace him with an answer. He looks down, and Lewis follows.

Oh. That kind of problem.

Lewis has no words of his own, so he steals some that he wasn’t aware he knew: “It’s like this, huh.”

The taut silence between them is overcome with a fit of giggles, as the shades of pink on Charles’ cheeks deepen. “Yes, LH,” he beams. “It’s like this.” It sounds fancier coming from him.

For a fleeting moment, Lewis thinks of Seb, bathing in champagne, dressed in rosso corsa, always half-hard on podiums despite the cameras. Probably even because of the cameras. Was Charles the same? Did he stumble over to Seb’s door as well, offering himself up with feigned innocence? Did Seb let him in, welcoming in a wolf in sheep’s clothing with open arms, all too pleased to play along? He tries to imagine them pushed up against the wall of Seb’s motorhome, next to the little succulents on the windowsill, all but gnawing at each other. Seb is touchy, he knows, but it’s still a novel delight to picture his hands getting up to ten different kinds of trouble on Charles’ waist, his jaw, his mouth.