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The city buzzes with night life somewhere deep below them — below way too many floors of hotel rooms, below the unspoken words, below whatever it is that’s been developing between them for months.
Lance is the first one to break the quiet moment. He breathes out: “Sometimes I think I should just give up.” His voice is steady, and so are his hands, but his eyes move too fast from building to building. Like he might find something there. Like someone might shout the answers he’s looking for at him. But no one does. No one ever does. “When I see others,” he speaks again, still not looking at Fernando, hands firm on the balcony railing, “the rookies, the people who started after me, do so much better than me… It makes me think. Maybe this isn’t for me. Maybe I was never supposed to get this far. Maybe… maybe I chose the wrong sport.”
He feels movement next to him. He sees Fernando place his hands — calloused and tired — on the railing, fingers curling against the metal like he needs to anchor himself to it. Like Lance’s words hit too close to home.
Because they do.
Fernando exhales. It’s deep, like he was holding the breath inside his soul and not his lungs. “Me too,” he says, his voice much less calm than his younger teammate’s. “Leoncito, you have no idea how many times the same fucking thoughts filled my own head.”
“But you achieved something.”
The Spaniard chuckles. It’s cynical, sharp, way too dry. “I achieved something? Lance, I have nothing, if you don’t count a few trophies and way too many team-issued pieces of clothing. Formula One left me with no friends, no family, no free time, no privacy, no wife, no kids.” He’s shaking his head as he speaks.
Fernando’s voice is rough, but Lance still doesn’t look at him — afraid of what he’ll see in those gorgeous brown eyes. “You won two championships,” he states like it’s obvious.
“And I lost many more,” Fernando opposes way too fast.
“You had a wife,” Lance tries again, even when he knows what words might come out of Fernando’s mouth next. He lets the Spaniard laugh again before adding: “At least you had one. At least you tried.”
“Tried,” Fernando repeats after him. His grip on the railing tightens. “Do or do not. There is no try.”
“Don’t quote Yoda at me like that’s any sort of answer.”
Lance finally allows his eyes to wander to his right, to the man standing next to him like he always does. He knows even before he looks that Fernando is holding himself with that infuriatingly perfect composure that used to drive Lance mad when they first met, before they even had a chance to begin understanding each other professionally. He swallows, licks his lower lip and closes his eyes before forcing himself to speak again: “Why does it feel so hard sometimes?”
Fernando looks up, towards the dark sky. No stars are out, tonight. Poetic.
“Why does it feel like… like I keep making mistakes even when I know exactly what I’m supposed to do?”
“You are not talking about racing anymore,” Fernando says. It’s not a question. He lowers his gaze in time to see Lance shake his head. “I wish I knew, leoncito.”
That’s when Lance looks at him properly for the first time since they came back from the stupid FIA dinner event. There are tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. His lips are bitten to the point of breaking the sensitive skin. The darkness under his eyes is more prominent now, in the shadows. “I’m not…” he starts, but his voice is no longer calm. It’s shaking. It cracked on the second syllable. “I’m not sure what I’m doing wrong.”
Fernando doesn’t respond. He doesn’t say what people usually expect in situations like this. Doesn’t tell Lance how he’s doing nothing wrong and how life is just sometimes unfair. He doesn’t even open his mouth. He just holds out his arms, wide and steady. And Lance understands exactly what he’s offering — he moves inside Fernando’s arms, letting himself be embraced by the shorter man.
Lance’s head finds its way onto Fernando’s shoulder, resting there like it’s his God-given right to do so. He exhales a shaky breath. “I feel so useless sometimes,” he admits. His eyes are closed again as he does so, focusing on the way Fernando’s hands feel on his back, rubbing soft circles there. “Racing is the only thing I am good at and I fucking suck at it. It’s just not fair.”
One of Fernando’s hands finds its way into Lance’s hair, combing through it lightly as he says: “You are good at a lot of things, cariño.”
Scoffing, Lance pushes away from Fernando. “Nando, you don’t have to lie to me. I have eyes. I have a brain. I can see that I am a one-trick pony from a fucked-up discount circus.”
“You are wrong,” Fernando says, his voice firm, but not upset. Their eyes meet before Fernando continues: “You take pretty photos. You write good poetry. Your drawings are beautiful, even if you hide them so no one ever sees. You are talented. Even if you think you suck.”
Their gazes are still locked on each other. Lance blinks and a tear escapes from each eye onto his cheeks.
And then another one.
Then two.
And then, he’s crying.
Tears are running down his cheeks like it’s their job, sliding lower and lower until they disappear around his jaw — some of them continuing their journey onto his neck, others falling down onto his chest.
Lance is biting his lower lip as if it could ever help keep his sobs quiet. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, no longer trusting himself to speak at normal volume. He hides his face into Fernando’s shoulder, mumbling apologies and insults targeted at himself in equal measures.
“Don’t cry, leoncito,” Fernando tries, suddenly way too aware of their closeness. “Please.”
They stand like that for a long time, Fernando is a steady force against the pain in Lance’s soul — not easing it, not forcing it away, just holding it with him. He’s whispering soft words next to the Canadian’s head, not even really sure if he can hear him. “You are amazing,” he says as lets his hand travel down Lance’s spine, and back up, to the warm spot between his shoulders. “I am so proud of you. Everyday I get to be your teammate, is a day I spent well. I would stay in Formula One forever, if you asked me to.” His voice drops even lower, becomes even softer as he adds: “You make my life better by being in it, Lance.”
The city still sparkles below them, golden and oblivious. The night is quiet — too quiet — until the song starts. Fernando can’t even tell where it’s coming from at first. Maybe a speaker on a different balcony. Maybe it’s coming from one of the buildings across from them. It could even be someone playing it live. But that doesn’t really matter.
It doesn’t matter where it’s coming from because it’s Hallelujah. Soft. Unrushed. It’s echoing between buildings like a prayer whispered just for them.
Lance’s head is still buried in Fernando’s shoulder, his body shaking with sobs. He’s no longer saying anything. But Fernando still is, even as the violin and piano chords start filling the air more prominently. “You smell like home,” he whispers. It’s the first thing he actually hopes Lance doesn’t hear.
It’s stupid, really — having a crush on someone while being over the age of fucking forty. Especially when it’s your boss’ son. And “extra especially” when Fernando knows Lance is as straight as they come. But that doesn’t matter.
From the moment the Canadian strolled casually into Lawrence’s office at the end of 2020 season — while Fernando was “just chatting” with him about the possibility of driving for them in the future — he knew this wouldn’t end well. Lance was twenty-two years old, still basically just a boy. He was wearing a Williams hoodie with black jeans, and the most expensive pair of sunglasses Fernando has ever seen in his life. And on his face, he was sporting the stupidest, cutest smile ever.
Something breaks inside Fernando, then, remembering the moment his whole life clicked into perspective. Why it never felt right with his ex-wife. Why he couldn’t bring himself to stay with any woman for too long.
The music fills the air between them, soft and sweet. And Fernando starts swaying them softly with it before he can even realize he’s doing it. The woman’s voice feels warm against his skin as she sings: “Now I've heard there was a secret chord that David played, and it pleased the Lord but you don't really care for music, do you?”
And what’s worse — Fernando finds himself singing with her, in his thick accent that lately only ever comes out when he sings (or curses). He holds Lance to his chest, hands steady, moving both of them lightly as the words leave his lips. “It goes like this the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall and the major lift, the baffled king composing Hallelujah.”
Sniffling, Lance lifts his head. Their eyes meet and it all makes sense now. He wipes his cheeks with the sleeve of his suit jacket. He sings, too — quiet, like he doesn’t trust his voice: “You say I took the name in vain, I don't even know the name, but if I did, well really, what's it to you?”
Fernando lowers his hand, placing it on the small of Lance’s back. Their movement is confident. A little jerky, but utterly devoted. He continues singing. But it no longer feels like a song, it feels like asking Lance to let them have this — even if just for a moment longer. “There's a blaze of light in every word, it doesn't matter what you heard, the holy or the broken Hallelujah.”
And Lance accepts, giving Fernando a soft, thin-lipped smile. He licks his lips.
Fernando’s voice is raspy as he sings with the singer again: “I did my best, it wasn't much, I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch. I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you.”
The smile on Lance’s lips falters, but only for a split second. He nods, letting himself be swayed into the familiar rhythm. “And even though it all went wrong, I'll stand before the Lord of Song with nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah.”
The woman keeps singing, but neither Fernando nor Lance joins her again. Their movement slows down, until it’s completely gone — leaving them standing still in the storm that is their emotions. Fernando reaches with his hand to Lance’s left cheek, wiping away the remaining tears his sleeve missed.
“Did you…” Lance breathes out, his eyes scanning Fernando’s face for something. “Did you mean it?”
Fernando lowers his hand again, settling it at Lance’s side, just beneath his ribs. The hold is light, barely a touch, but both of them feel it deep in their bones. “What, cariño?”
“What you said before,” Lance lets out. He suddenly cannot bring himself to look into Fernando’s eyes, looking at his chest instead as he adds: “When you said I smell like home.”
The breath catches in Fernando’s throat. “Sí,” he nods. “I did.” He touches Lance’s cheek again, this time cupping it properly. He forces Lance to look up, to meet his eyes. And when they do, Fernando asks: “Is that okay?”
“Yeah,” Lance nods. Even though he’s physically taller, he feels small in Fernando’s arms. Like he’s being allowed to feel soft and hurt and all the other things no one ever lets him feel anymore. “You smell like home, too.”
The confession is small, but it carries the weight of million unsaid things and even more deeply felt things pushed into the corners of their minds.
Fernando finds himself smiling, the expression making the skin around his eyes wrinkle more.
Lance moves his hand, slowly and reverent, like he’s worried about doing something wrong. He touches Fernando’s face, smoothing the wrinkles with his fingers. It’s not the first time they’ve been this close, but it’s the first time either of them admits to themselves they never want to stop again.
“I think I love you,” Fernando whispers, his voice rough but caressing all at once.
Lance nods. “I think I always have,” he breathes out with a haunting mixture of a sob and a chuckle. “I begged dad to sign you for months before he promised to try.”
And Fernando laughs. Actually laughs. “And here I was, thinking that I caught feelings first.”
Shaking his head, Lance mutters: “I cried the day you announced that you’d no longer be racing in Formula One. I was considering bribing Sebastian to give me your address just so I could see you again.”
The arm that is still plastered on Lance’s back suddenly moves, snaking around him and pulling him closer to Fernando. “You wanted to see me that bad, huh?” he says, his words teasing, but the tone still soft. He watches Lance blush, his cheek growing warmer under his touch. “And did you just want to see me? Or would you have asked for something?”
Lance blushes even more now, the pink crawling up his neck all the way to his ears. Suddenly, he’s not twenty-seven anymore, but twenty with an embarrassing crush as the words leave his lips: “I wanted to ask… if you’d kiss me.”
And Fernando does just that.
It’s not dramatic. Or filthy. Or even hungry.
It’s soft and reverent and full of things they thought they’d never get to say out loud.
Fernando moves away first. “Like that?”
Lance nods. “Yeah. Like that.”
Nodding, Fernando bites his lip. “And would you want just this one?”
This time, it’s Lance who presses their mouths together. The second kiss is even gentler than the first one, sweet and addicting in a way neither of them ever felt before. “I don’t think there is a number big enough for how many kisses I want from you.”
“You are a greedy boy, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. I was always like that with the stuff that I love.”