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The movie on the television had long since been forgotten, its sound turned low, flickering colors painting the walls of Lewis’ hotel room. The remnants of dinner sat on the service cart near the door—half-drained wine glasses, plates with sauce smeared across them, a basket of bread pushed aside when they’d gotten too caught up talking to bother finishing.
Charles lay back against the headboard, legs stretched out, his socks brushing the duvet. Lewis was beside him, propped on one elbow, a little too close but not quite touching, one hand lazily tugging at the hem of his shorts. The room carried that heavy, late-night stillness, the kind that made every laugh feel louder, every silence feel deliberate.
They were half-celebrating their front-row lock out in qualifying, trying not to get their hopes up. Especially after qualifying P4 and P5 last year, plus Lewis’ five-place grid drop. This frontrow was worth celebrating, just a bit. And Lewis was certain he could convert his pole to a win, with Max breaking the curse previously, he really only had to worry about his teammate that would be starting next to him.
“Your Italian still hasn’t improved since last year,” Charles laughed, replaying a video from earlier in the week where Lewis was speaking to a few fans in very broken Italian. His eyes glinting as he glanced sideways at Lewis.
Lewis laughed, deep and easy. “Hey, don’t be rude. I’ve been working on it. Duolingo, every damn morning.”
Charles let out a snort, tilting his head back against the pillows. “Exceptionally hard, I’m sure.”
“I have a 300 day streak!” Lewis reached out and nudged his knee against Charles’ thigh in mock offense. “You’re horrible. Really. Here I am, putting in the work, and you just laugh at me.”
Charles put his hands up in a playful defense before turning fully to look at Lewis. “I’m joking, by the way.” Lewis knew that already. “I know you’re trying, and you have gotten better. I like hearing you speak, it reminds me of the love you have for the Tifosi.”
The elder hummed, satisfied. The moment hung soft between them, comfortable and close. The movie murmured on.
Then Lewis shifted, eyes still fixed on the ceiling when he spoke, casual but tinged with something sharper. “Why don’t you ever speak to me in Italian? You promised you’d teach me, and you never do. Sometimes Ricky’ll throw me a line or two, but you—” he turned his head now, eyes locking on Charles’—“you never speak to me in Italian.”
Charles’ brows lifted slightly, his lips pressing together before curling into a small, unreadable smile. “You really want that?”
“Yes,” Lewis said without hesitation, grinning. “Exactly that. Go on, professor. Teach me something.”
Charles studied him for a beat too long, pulse quick in his throat. Then, with a slow exhale, he shifted closer, his voice dropping into Italian, low and deliberate. “Vuoi che ti parli così? È questo che vuoi?”
Lewis blinked at him, wide-eyed but smiling, utterly clueless. “Yes. That. Whatever you just said—do more of that.”
Charles laughed softly, a sound caught between amusement and nerves. He hesitated again, but Lewis was looking at him with that open, easy trust, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, lips parted in quiet anticipation. So Charles kept going, words slipping out before he could stop himself.
“Hai le ciglia più lunghe che abbia mai visto.”
Lewis chuckled under his breath. “That sounded flattering.”
Charles’ gaze dipped, taking in the way Lewis’ shorts had ridden up as he sprawled across the bed, exposing the sharp cut of muscle along his thigh. His throat went dry.
“Questi pantaloncini sono troppo corti, Lewis.”
Lewis’ laughter rose again, unbothered. “See? You are teaching me.”
Charles’ chest tightened. His voice went lower, steadier, as though daring himself.
“Saresti bellissimo sotto di me, Lewis.”
The air shifted instantly.
Lewis didn’t laugh this time. He blinked slowly, lips parting, his gaze heavy and unguarded. He didn’t know the words, but he knew tone, and Charles’ tone was unmistakable.
Still, Charles wasn’t done. The words tumbled out, thick with something he couldn’t swallow down. “Voglio spruzzarti champagne su tutto il corpo e leccarlo”
The silence that followed was deafening, humming like electricity through the room. Lewis stared at him with those wide, dark, impossibly soft eyes, utterly still.
Charles felt the weight of it—the danger, the invitation—and it terrified him. His pulse hammered in his ears. He cleared his throat and pushed himself upright, suddenly restless.
“I should—” his voice cracked slightly, and he forced it steady—“I should go. We have a race to win tomorrow.”
Lewis only nodded, a small, knowing smile curving at his lips. “Yeah. Go ahead. See you in the morning.”
Charles lingered at the door for a moment too long, his hand on the handle, before slipping out. The door clicked shut softly behind him, leaving Lewis stretched out on the bed, staring at the ceiling, the ghost of Charles’ voice still wrapped around him like smoke.
The Ferrari motorhome buzzed with the usual Monza chaos—engineers darting through the corridors, staff huddled in corners, the scent of espresso strong in the air. Lewis and Charles moved through it with practiced ease, shoulders brushing here and there, but otherwise acting as though nothing at all had shifted between them.
They went through their separate debriefs, Lewis deep in conversation with Ricky and the engineers, Charles on the other side of the garage hunched over data. Their routines ticked forward—team photos, handshakes, media smiles—all perfectly normal. If anyone had been looking, no one would have suspected that last night had tipped something precarious between them.
By the time the drivers’ parade rolled around, the sun was high, burning bright against the sea of red in the stands. Charles stood chatting with Max, Pierre, and Lando, laughter passing between them, but Lewis caught the way all their eyes flicked briefly in his direction. He shook it off—he’d lived with paddock whispers long enough to ignore them—and turned just as three younger figures approached.
“Kimi, Isack, Franco,” Lewis greeted warmly, clapping each on the shoulder in turn.
Isack had taken the second Red Bull seat alongside Max, a spot notorious for chewing up careers, and yet he was thriving—fast, sharp, sitting comfortably seventh in the championship. The car was still twitchy at times, but no one was expecting the second car to ever be on par with Max anyways. Franco, in Alpine colors, was in the form of his life, locked level on points with Pierre, a statement of his resilience after the struggles of last year. And Kimi—sixth in the standings after a brutal 2025—looked steadier, more assured, a promise finally coming to fruition.
Lewis’ chest warmed at the sight of them. These kids weren’t kids anymore.
But then memory pricked—last night, Charles’ voice low and dangerous, words Lewis couldn’t understand but couldn’t forget. Why not find out?
“Kimi,” Lewis said lightly, folding his arms, tone deliberately casual. “Someone said something to me yesterday. Stuck in my head. No clue what it meant.”
Kimi tilted his head, curious. “What did they say?”
Lewis snorted, he tried stumbling over the syllables, his accent murdering the flow but close enough to be recognizable. “Uh…spruzzarti…champagne? Su tutto…il corpo e leccarlo”
Kimi’s eyes went wide, color flooding his cheeks before he could stop it. He blinked rapidly, trying to school his expression, but his ears betrayed him, turning pink. “Wow,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “That person is…”
“—Bold,” Franco finishes, equally as shocked.
Isack leaned in, grinning. “What did it mean?”
Kimi hesitated, looking anywhere but at Lewis. “It’s— ah it’s not really something I should say outloud.”
Lewis arched a brow, amusement bubbling. “Come on. Tell me.”
Kimi shifted uncomfortably, still pink, his voice low when he answered. He looked at Franco desperately, to try and telepathically tell him to say it himself. Franco sighed, rolling his eyes, “They were saying, that they wanted to spray champagne on your body…and lick it.”
Lewis’ breath caught. His grin faltered for just a fraction of a second before recovering into a disbelieving laugh. “That’s what they said?”
Kimi nodded quickly, face burning.
Lewis chuckled, shaking his head. “Alright then. And how would you respond to that?”
The question made all three of them perk up, curious. Franco cleared his throat, “If it’s a fan, I wouldn’t respond. But,” His gaze flicked up, tentative. “If it’s a lover, maybe.”
A lover.
Lewis’ mind stuttered, Charles’ voice from last night colliding hard with Franco’s words. His eyes widened slightly, heartbeat tripping.
Before the silence could thicken further, a familiar figure appeared.
“Lewis,” Valtteri greeted warmly, stepping up to clasp his hand.
Lewis smiled back, grateful for the interruption, but something tugged at his attention. Across the truck, he caught sight of Charles. For the briefest moment, Charles’ gaze was fixed on him, unreadable, before he looked away abruptly, jaw tight, expression smoothing into something perfectly neutral.
The crowd cheered, the parade kept rolling, but Lewis suddenly felt the ground tilt beneath him.
The checkered flag fell and the circuit erupted.
Ricky’s reply was drowned in the thumping of his heart, “That’s P1, Lewis you are— that was amazing. I’m so proud of you.”
He smiled hearing those words, Ricky had gotten a little more comfortable each race to show emotion and pride. Lewis still found himself shaking his head whenever he would talk during the turns, or give information that didn’t matter to him, but it was better than last year’s fiasco. That’s for sure.
Lewis’ voice cracked through the radio as he shouted in Italian—broken, imperfect, but loud enough to be swallowed by the deafening cheer of the tifosi. “Grazie a tutti! Grazie, grazie, grazie. To the fans, the team, the people back at the factory. Grazie ragazzi.”
On the cool-down lap he barely heard his own breathing, the entire track vibrating with the kind of joy only Monza could give. He felt a big smile form on his face when he looked over to his right to see Charles next to him, driving in formation. Red lit the stands as fans stood in joy, pumping fists in the air, and their flags waved like fire. Before he knew it, he was pulling into the P1 slot he belonged to.
His 116th win.
Lewis climbed onto his car, standing tall on the bodywork, arms outstretched. The sound was indescribable, a wall of noise that rattled through his bones. He leapt down, legs moving on instinct, running straight for the sea of Ferrari crew waiting at the barriers. They swallowed him whole, arms grabbing him, pulling him close, the press of bodies and hands thumping against his back.
When he finally pulled himself free, breathless, he saw Charles just a few feet away. His teammate was drenched in sweat, still half-hugged by mechanics, his smile brighter than the sun. Their eyes met across the chaos.
Charles moved first, striding toward him, and Lewis didn’t think—he just opened his arms. The hug was fierce, grounding, everything else fading for a moment. He smelled like fuel, inevitable champagne, and the distinct smell of his cologne that Lewis had gotten accustomed to smelling.
Then it was all blur again.
The weight check. The press of microphones. His name echoing off grandstands. He was smiling so hard his face hurt, and still he couldn’t stop. Nico Rosberg—Nico fucking Rosberg—stood there holding the mic for the top three interviews, and Lewis didn’t even care. He couldn’t muster the energy for old ghosts. He just grinned so wide that it split his cheeks, words tumbling out unfiltered: pride, gratitude, love for Ferrari, love for the tifosi.
He didn’t feel his feet moving to the cool-down room. Didn’t register the cameras flashing. His body was running on anticipation and adrenaline, his mind floating somewhere above the track.
And then, suddenly, they were there.
The cooldown room for Monza was one he hadn’t been in since 2019. He remembers the disappointment last year as well. His first season with Ferrari and just missing out on all of the home races for him.
Lewis glanced at Lando, already comfortable in his chair, slight melancholy on his face. He supposed it was him realizing that catching up to him and Charles in the championship standings would be nearly impossible with how the two were driving. It was finally beginning to dawn on him. Both Ferrari drivers couldn’t care, after the horrible season they had the year prior, they deserved this.
Charles sat inbetween them, hair plastered to his forehead, talking to Lando about an incident between Max and Isack playing on the screen. Lewis made the mental note to send a text to the young French driver after all the celebrations. Their voices filled the small space, casual, as though the entire world wasn’t still screaming outside.
Lewis slouched against his seat, still digesting what they had just done. His pulse was still so high he could barely listen. He just let the sound wash over him: Charles’ voice, Lando’s laughter, the hum of the fans outside.
Then, Charles was infront of him, holding a hand to which he took graciously. It was already time for the podium, yet Lewis felt as if he hadn’t had enough time to actually cool down.
Lando was called up first. The cheers rose, polite but thin, almost drowned out by the restless anticipation for red. Lewis felt the sound settle sharp in his chest, an echo of the years when the Tifosi had booed him mercilessly in silver. He pushed a smile onto his face, breathing through the sting. This wasn’t about then. Not anymore.
He glanced at Charles in front of him. The Monegasque was practically vibrating, his hands jittering at his sides, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Cute. Infectious. Lewis found himself smiling genuinely now—until his gaze slipped lower, catching the curve of Charles’ ass in his fireproofs, the strength in his body honed to perfection.
“Christ,” Lewis muttered silently to himself, mentally slapping the thought away. Not now. Not here. Not before thousands of fans.
When Charles’ name was called to the podium, the sound of the Tifosi hit like a tidal wave. The grandstands shook. Red flares flared brighter. Charles ran out, lifted a hand high, his grin blinding. The Tifosi adored him—always had, always would.
Lewis smiled to himself, if there was another thing he had in common with the fans Tifosi, it would be the adoration for Charles. He immediately had to snap out of the thought when he heard his name being called. Lewis bolted forward, letting the roar wash over him. He pressed kisses to his fingers, threw them to the sea of red, his grin splitting so wide it hurt his cheeks. He felt every step reverberate in his bones, every cheer press against his chest.
The anthem began. As “God Save The King” played, Lewis scanned the crowd below. It was fully red, some people unable to hold in their emotions, letting the tears fall. If Lewis wasn’t so good at holding in his own tears, he was sure he would be joining them as well. Then the Italian anthem, and Monza became a cathedral. Tens of thousands of voices lifted as one. Lewis looked out at them, the entire track turned into a pulsing ocean of red. Then he turned his head to the right.
Charles was singing, loud and unashamed, a smile as big as Lewis’, eyes shining.
And Lewis felt it like a blow to the heart.
God. Have I been so dumb?
It was suddenly so obvious. The late nights in hotel rooms. The too-long stares. The touches that lingered when they didn’t need to. The way Charles’ voice had dipped last night, daring, reckless.
Lewis’ chest tightened with a mix of regret and clarity. Of course he was in love. Of course Charles was too. He had been an idiot not to see it sooner.
A trophy was pressed into his hands, gleaming in the Monza sun. He raised it high, the crowd erupting again, but his eyes drifted sideways. Charles was watching him, smile so bright it threatened to undo Lewis completely.
It was obvious, Lewis thought, heart lurching. I’ve been an idiot.
They set their trophies down. The champagne bottles replacing them. The ritual began: a blast toward the crowd, another at Lando, laughter spilling out as he shrieked and fired back. Then Charles turned his spray toward Lewis, and Lewis—heart still pounding from his revelation—stepped closer.
“You said you wanted to spray champagne on me,” he shouted over the noise, grin wicked. “So do it.”
Charles froze, eyes widening, the implication slamming home. Lewis knew.
And yet, with the world watching, Charles didn’t flinch. He tilted his bottle, the stream catching Lewis full in the chest. Lewis tipped his head back, opening his mouth, letting it spill over his lips, onto his tongue.
Time slowed.
Charles stared, devouring the sight: Lewis drinking him in, champagne glistening on his skin, neck arched, body taut. The spray was messy, celebratory—but in that frozen heartbeat, it was something else entirely. Sensual. Intimate. A promise.
The crowd screamed, none the wiser. To them, it was spectacle.
His motorhome was the quiet after the storm. The sound of Tifosi still echoed faintly outside the paddock gates, but in here it was muted, a bubble of calm after hours of chaos. He tugged off his undershirt, dropping it in a heap, his body still humming with adrenaline. The plan was simple: freshen up, change, head back out to greet the fans, hotel, then the after-party.
He was reaching for a clean shirt when a knock rattled the door. “Coming,” Lewis called, padding over, bare chested, fingers curling loosely around the fabric. He pulled the door open and blinked in surprise.
Charles.
He stepped aside automatically, voice distracted. “Sorry, let me put a shirt on—“
The words barely left hit mouth before the door clicked shut behind Charles, who pressed him back against and— lips?
It wasn’t tentative— No, it was hungry, messy, and Lewis’ brain didn’t even have time to catch up before his body was already answering. His mouth moved in sync, his hand clutching at Charles’ shoulders, the other finding it’s way slowly down his chest.
Then it hit him. Too much, all at once— the roar of Monza, the sea of red, the anthems, the podium, Charles kissing him now like it had been inevitable all along. A sound broke from his throat, a soft whimped, and suddenly his face was wet.
He hadn’t even realized he was crying until Charles broke the kiss, eyes wide, hands still steady on his side. “Lewis,” Charles breathed, horror flashing across his face. “Did I—did I read this all wrong? I’m sorry, fuck, I didn’t mean to—“
Lewis shook his head frantically, voice breaking. “No, no, it isn’t you. I just— I don’t know why I’m crying.”
He really didn’t. He wasn’t a crier, or, at least in the prescence of others. But, there was something about Charles that made him feel safe enough to do so.
The tears didn’t want to stop.
Charles’ brows knitted, concern softening his features. “Are they happy tears, or sad ones?”
Lewis’ lips curved into a shaky smile, wet still. “Definitely happy.” He sniffed, laughing weakly. “Sorry, I don’t usually cry like this. It’s just, the fans, the energy—“
“I get it,” Charles said gently, squeezing his sides. His smile was tender, unshaken. “You can cry. It’s okay. You can cry infront of me.”
Lewis froze for heartbeat. He almost never let anyone see him like this. But something in Charles’ steadiness broke through his defenses, and instead of pulling away, Lewis slide his arms around him, pressing closer and resting his forehead on Charles’ shoulder.
Charles held him firmly, rubbing slow, circles into his back, quiet, grounding. “You were incredible out there. Of course, I would’ve liked to win, but I’m happy— so happy that it’s you.”
Lewis’ laughter bubbled up suddenly, muffled against Charles’ neck. “Sorry. I really should’ve put on a shirt before answering the door.”
Charles chuckled, shaking his head. “You weren’t expecting me. Not your fault.”
When they finally seperated, Charles’ gaze swept downward, lingering openly. His breath caught. “Sei bellissimo…” he murmured, just loud enough for Lewis to hear it.
Lewis’ eyes widened before a grin spread across his face. “Did you have fun pouring champagne on me? Just like you imagined it?”
Color flooded Charles’ cheeks, but his chin lifted slightly. “So, you understood me?”
The elder laughed, shaking his head. “No, no. I had to ask someone for help.”
Charles stiffened. “What? Who? You didn’t—“
His voice faltered, panic flickering across his face. “You didn’t tell them it was me, did you?”
Lewis’ laughter deepened at how adorably flustered he looked. “Relax. I made an excuse. But I still don’t know what else you said.”
“I said a lot.”
“You did.” Lewis arched a brow, “Was the spraying of champagne just like your wildest fantasies?”
Charles rolled his eyes, “I didn’t have to imagine much when Max and Seb already got the privillege to do so.”
“Jealous?”
“Yes!” Charles sighed, squinting at Lewis as he continued to giggle at his expense. But it was short-lived as his expression softened, as it always did when it came to Lewis. His blush still hadn’t faded, he shifted on his feet, then finally asked in a low voice, “So…did I read this all wrong, or?”
Lewis’ chest tightened. He shook his head quickly, voice gentle. “No, you didn’t. God, no. Sorry, I ruined the mood.”
“You didn’t,” Charles said immediately, firm and quiet at once. His eyes softened, still holding Lewis in his gaze. “There’s no such thing.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, just heavy—charged with something new between them. Charles’ hands were still resting lightly at Lewis’ waist, Lewis’ bare chest brushing his knuckles with every breath.
After a moment, Charles cleared his throat, a small, nervous smile tugging at his lips. “Can I… see you later?”
Lewis tilted his head, teasing. “I’ll be at the party, of course.”
Charles gave him a look, half exasperation, half affection. “You know what I mean, Lewis.”
Lewis’ grin softened into something warmer. He lifted a hand, brushing the back of his fingers along Charles’ jaw before cupping his face properly. Charles leaned into it instinctively, eyes fluttering shut for a second, his whole body tipping toward the touch.
Lewis’ thumb smoothed over his cheek. “Festeggiare,” he murmured.
Charles’ smile broke wide then, bright and unrestrained, his eyes crinkling. “Festeggiare,” he echoed, voice low and certain.
For a moment, it was just the two of them, pressed close in the quiet motorhome, the whole world still screaming outside.
The bass from the speakers made the whole room thrum, Ferrari red banners draped over every surface, champagne still sticky on the floorboards in places. Lewis leaned against the bar, nursing his Almave cocktail, letting the cool citrus cut through the heat in his throat. His body was buzzing — from the win, from the fans, from Charles’ kiss earlier — but he kept it contained, his posture easy, smile light.
“Lewis,” a voice came, and he turned to see Kimi weaving through the crowd toward him, face flushed with the glow of someone who’d just had a damn good race.
“Hey, champ,” Lewis grinned, pulling him into a half-hug. “P4, that’s solid. Shame we couldn’t have had you up there with us.”
Kimi sighed, though it didn’t quite hide the steel in his voice. “It’s okay. Next year, I’ll be there.”
Lewis tilted his head, admiring that quiet certainty. Last year had broken the kid down; this year, he’d built himself back up from nothing. “I believe you,” Lewis said, sincerity soft under the noise of the party. “You’ve done the work. It shows.”
Kimi smiled faintly at that before his expression shifted, almost mischievous. “Charles is looking for you. As soon as I walked in, he asked if I’d seen you.”
Lewis barked a laugh. “Is he drunk? I’m pretty noticeable, no?”
Kimi’s grin widened. “Tipsy, maybe. He’s taken over the dance floor.” He nodded toward the middle of the room. Lewis followed the gesture and spotted Charles instantly: white buttoned-up shirt damp with sweat, hair stuck to his forehead, grinning as he danced in a messy circle with Pierre, Lando, George, and Alex. His movements were loose, easy, free. The sight tugged at Lewis’ chest in ways he tried to ignore.
“Are you going to join him?” Kimi asked, eyebrows raised.
Lewis swirled the cocktail in his hand. “Might. I am the winner, after all.”
Kimi leaned in then, enough that Lewis expected some quiet advice or a word meant to stay private. His voice was low, almost teasing. “Was it him? Did he say those things to you?”
Lewis blinked. “What?”
“The champagne,” Kimi clarified. “On your body. It was Charles, wasn’t it?”
Lewis’ laugh came out too quick, too nervous. It was a little weird to be talking to Kimi of all people about this — the kid was a whole two decades younger than him — and yet he was gossiping about his crush like they were schoolmates. He rubbed at the back of his neck. “How’d you figure that out?”
Kimi smirked, looking far too smug for someone his age. “It wasn’t hard. Charles isn’t exactly subtle with you. And you wouldn’t remember a line like that from some random fan.”
Lewis ducked his head, smiling softly despite himself. “You’re pretty smart, you know that?”
Kimi gave a tiny shrug, pleased.
“Yeah, it was him,” Lewis admitted quietly, warmth creeping up his neck. “And he did it on the podium. Did you see?”
“I saw,” Kimi said, but then shook his head. “But he didn’t do the second part.”
Lewis frowned faintly, brain skipping. Second part? Did I miss—?
Kimi’s grin spread as he caught the confusion flicker across Lewis’ face. “He said he would lick it.”
Lewis’ eyes flew wide. His gaze shot instinctively across the room — and sure enough, Charles was looking at him from the dance floor, breathless, sweat-slick, smile just shy of wicked. Their eyes held for a moment that stretched and stretched until Lewis’ pulse thudded hard in his ears.
Kimi’s laugh broke the spell. He clapped Lewis on the shoulder, still chuckling. “Good luck.” With that, he disappeared into the crowd, making a beeline for Isack, Franco, and Ollie at the far side of the room.
Lewis stood frozen, cocktail forgotten in his hand, Charles still watching him like he was already caught.
Lewis barely thinks — barely breathes — as he pushes off the bar and starts walking across the crowded floor. Charles notices instantly. Their eyes catch and hold, magnetic, and they meet halfway in the pulsing center of the dance floor.
“You look good,” Charles says first, voice rough from shouting over the music. His eyes sweep over Lewis’ loose black pants, the flow of his baggy button-up, the glint of silver catching every flicker of light. The top buttons undone, skin and chest gleaming — Charles’ tongue flicks across his lips without him meaning to.
Lewis smirks, tipping his head. “Do I now?”
“Dance with me.” Charles doesn’t ask — he just grabs Lewis’ hands, spinning him once, twice, pulling him in close. Lewis lets himself be led, lets Charles manhandle him until Charles’ chest is pressed to his back, hips flush, the friction unmistakable. Heat radiates off Charles in waves.
Lewis swears he can feel him get hard.
“We’re in public, Charles,” Lewis mutters, the warning half-hearted, his head tipping back just enough to feel Charles’ breath against his neck.
“I don’t care,” Charles says, voice low and hungry. “Everyone’s too drunk to notice. It’s okay.”
Lewis scans the room quickly. Charles is right — the floor is chaos, Pierre and Lando dancing with arms around each other, George trying to drag Alex into some ridiculous move, staff spilling drinks in their excitement. No one’s looking.
Charles’ hands creep up Lewis’ chest, sliding over silk, fingers tugging until one hand finds a nipple and toys with it, circling, teasing. A sigh escapes Lewis’ lips, his head falling to the side, baring his throat instinctively. “Are you drunk?” He asked, wanting clarification.
“No, I haven’t had a drop of alcohol.” Charles leans in, lips grazing the warm skin of Lewis’ neck as he whispers. “I want you. I’ve wanted you for too long. You turn me on so much. I could bend you over the bar right now.”
A groan slips from Lewis’ chest, quiet but undeniable, his body arching into every word Charles pours into his ear. He lets Charles keep going, lets him feed the fire curling tighter and tighter inside him. But then—
“Do you actually want me?” Lewis breathes, voice cutting sharper now. “Or just my body?”
Charles freezes. The air shifts instantly, the tease evaporating. He pulls back just enough for Lewis to feel the change in him, the sudden seriousness.
“No, Lewis. Don’t.” His tone is raw. “I want you. Surely you don’t believe I’m just here to use you.”
Lewis turns then, confused by the intensity, and finds Charles’ eyes scanning the crowd like he’s searching for a way out. Before Lewis can say anything, Charles’ hand finds his wrist, tugging.
“Come.”
Lewis lets himself be pulled, heart hammering, out through the press of bodies and into the cooler night air of the patio. A few staff and bodyguards lingered at the edges, smoking, chatting, but no one paid them any attention. The music dulled into a muted throb, the space between them clearer now.
“I want you,” Charles says again, firm, deliberate. His chest is heaving. “I’m not trying to play mind games. I’ve wanted you for years.”
Lewis swallows hard, his throat dry. “You haven’t exactly been direct about what you want, Charles.”
A rough sigh. Charles nods once, his eyes searching. “I have been obvious, though. Half the grid knows. You’re just… stuck in that pretty little head of yours, not seeing how badly I want you.”
Lewis blinks, sees him clearer now in the soft light. He exhales, almost laughing at the absurdity of it. “I don’t doubt you want me, Charles. But think about it from my side. You say these filthy things to me in Italian, you kiss me out of nowhere, you ask to see me after the party, you grind on me in a room full of people— You can see where I’m coming from, right?”
Charles’ mouth tightens, then softens. “I suppose you’re right.” Silence stretches, tense and alive. Then he clears his throat, his voice breaking just slightly.
“I love you,” he blurts, the words tumbling out. “I’ve always loved you, Lewis. I want to be yours. I want you to be mine.”
Lewis’ breath hitches. He already knew — deep down, he’d known — but hearing it, hearing it laid bare, makes his chest ache.
Charles pushes forward, eyes bright and unflinching. “I want to go home to you. Celebrate every 1–2 we get. Walk Roscoe and Leo together. Travel to every race with you. I love you. I’m sorry it took me this long to say it.”
Lewis shakes his head, emotion catching him off guard. “Don’t apologize. I’m sorry I didn’t notice right away. This season has been—”
Charles nods, understanding in his gaze. He knows. Lewis is leading the championship, chasing his eighth. Charles is twenty points behind, still clawing toward his first. It’s a championship battle between two teammates, the first time in years, Ferrari could confidently say they would win this year. Lewis knows it all too well, fighting for the top position with someone you care too deeply for. And yet— unlike 2016, he didn’t feel as if this would ruin him.
“Can I kiss you again?” Charles asks softly.
Lewis nods.
The kiss ignites instantly, mouths colliding, hands clutching. It’s messy, heated, Lewis’ hand fisting in Charles’ hair as Charles tugs his own head to the side, baring his throat. Charles sucks along the column of his neck, teeth grazing, kisses wet and claiming. Lewis holds him tighter, groans spilling, the noise swallowed by Charles’ mouth when they reconnect.
“We should leave,” Lewis whispers against his lips, breath ragged.
Charles nods, but doesn’t stop, dragging his mouth lower, sucking another mark into Lewis’ throat. Lewis lets out a startled laugh, his head tipping back.
“Charles,” he chuckles, breathless, “I said leave, not decorate me.”
Charles just hums, lips still on his skin, and Lewis feels himself melt entirely.
The bass rattled through the walls, red lights flashing across the packed floor, when Charles tugged Lewis toward the corner where Fred was holding court with a glass of champagne. The team principal’s cheeks were flushed, his laughter louder than usual. Definitely tipsy, at least.
“Fred,” Charles said, stepping right up to him. “We’re leaving. I’ll take my car.”
Fred squinted at him, then let his eyes flick between Charles and Lewis. His brows rose slowly. “Leaving?” he repeated, drawing the word out suspiciously. “But the night is young! You’ve both earned this. Stay, dance, drink. Everyone wants to celebrate you.”
Charles shook his head firmly. “We’ve celebrated enough.”
Fred tilted his head, gaze narrowing. “Enough? Lewis, do you agree with this nonsense?”
Lewis tried to keep his face neutral, though he was very aware of how close he was standing to Charles, the way their shoulders brushed. “I—uh—yeah, I think we’re good.”
Fred’s eyes darted down to Lewis’ shirt, rumpled from Charles’ hands earlier, then to Charles’ hair, a little messy at the crown. His smile curved sly. “Hm. You both look like you’ve been celebrating already.”
Charles flushed instantly. “We—no, we haven’t—”
“Not that it’s any of my business,” Fred cut in, raising his glass in mock-innocence, “but I’ve been in this paddock long enough to recognize when two drivers are standing too close together. Or when one of them has lipstick—or lip gloss?—smeared on his chin.”
Lewis’ hand shot up to his face on instinct. Nothing was there, of course, but Fred’s bark of laughter made it worse.
“You’re drunk,” Charles muttered, half amused, half horrified.
“Perhaps.” Fred shrugged, grin wide. “But drunk or not, I have eyes. And intuition.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “If you’re sneaking off together, at least take care of yourselves, hm? And for the love of god, don’t let the press catch you.”
Lewis’ cheeks burned, and Charles’ ears had gone pink. Both of them shook their heads so hard it was almost comical.
Fred chuckled, clearly satisfied with their mutual embarrassment. “Fine, fine. Go,” he added, straightening just enough to regain a hint of authority.
“Thank you,” Charles sighed, tugging Lewis by the wrist before any more could be said.
Fred finally waved them off with a drunken flourish, muttering something about “young love” under his breath, which Charles pretended not to hear. Lewis, biting back laughter, tugged him toward the other side of the room where a cluster of drivers were talking.
“Let’s at least say goodbye,” Lewis murmured, though Charles’ grip on his wrist hadn’t eased up.
Pierre spotted them first. His grin was instantaneous, knowing, too sharp for comfort. “Ah, enfin,” he drawled, switching to French. “I was wondering how long you two were going to pretend you were just getting drinks.”
Charles froze. “We were—”
Pierre cut him off with a laugh, holding his hands up in surrender. “Don’t bother. You don’t need to explain anything to me. Just—” he leaned in a little, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial murmur— “maybe fix your hair before you walk out. You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge.”
Lewis choked on a laugh, hiding it quickly behind his glass. Charles gave Pierre a flat look, muttering something under his breath in French that made Pierre laugh harder.
They made their way around the group, offering quick goodbyes. Lando gave them a distracted wave, too busy arguing with George about some song playing. Alex asked if they were headed out already, but Charles only nodded, vague enough to avoid suspicion.
But Pierre? Pierre just smirked knowingly, eyes flicking between them one last time before calling after, “Bonne nuit, lovers.”
Charles groaned audibly and pushed Lewis toward the door before Lewis could even think of a response, both of them half laughing, half mortified by the time the cool night air hit them.
The blacked-out Ferrari car was waiting, Charles sliding behind the wheel while Lewis settled in beside him. The streets were quieter than either expected; most of Monza was still alive inside bars, restaurants, clubs. Lewis leaned his head against the cool glass, watching the blur of streetlights.
“I hope you know,” he said after a beat, voice low but steady, “I won’t be backing down from this fight. I will be reclaiming my eighth, Charles.”
Charles hummed, one hand loose on the wheel. “I know. It doesn’t change anything for me either. I’ll be racing you like I always do.”
That made Lewis smile, something warm curling in his chest. No confusion, no hesitation. They were on the same page.
By the time they pulled into the hotel’s underground lot, the noise of celebration was far behind them. No fans lingered; everyone was out, drunk on Ferrari’s double podium. The silence was almost shocking.
They walked in side by side, the receptionist offering a distracted smile before returning to her screen. Charles’ room was just across from Lewis’, and he reached for the keycard in his pocket, glancing at Lewis like the whole night might still shatter if he blinked wrong.
Lewis only gave him that soft, knowing smile back.
The soft click of the door felt louder than it should have, the rest of the world vanishing behind it. For a beat, Lewis just looked at Charles, chest rising and falling, shirt half open from where Charles had tugged on it earlier. Then he stepped forward, closing the distance, and pressed their mouths together in a kiss that started slow—deliberate, testing—until Charles’ lips parted beneath his, eager, hungry.
Lewis walked him backward with steady pressure, his hand sliding up Charles’ chest until the back of Charles’ legs hit the couch. Charles sat with a soft thud, pulling Lewis with him. Lewis swung one leg over, straddling him without hesitation, their mouths never breaking until Charles’ hands found his ass and gripped hard, dragging him down flush against him.
Lewis moaned into the kiss, hips rocking instinctively. The grind pulled another sound from Charles, low and rough, breaking their lips apart as his head tipped back. Lewis’ breath came in ragged gasps, his curls falling forward, lips shining. Charles took the opening immediately, mouth on his neck, tongue tracing the line of his jaw before finding that spot just below his ear.
“Charles…” Lewis’ voice came out strained, half-moan, half-warning, though his hips rolled down harder, chasing the friction between them. Charles’ answer was a muffled groan against his skin, fingers already fumbling with the buttons of Lewis’ shirt. One after another came undone until the loose fabric fell open, exposing warm skin and silver chains catching in the dim light.
Charles’ lips trailed lower, tasting along his collarbone as his hand slid up, splayed wide across Lewis’ chest. His thumb brushed over a nipple, circling, teasing, and Lewis’ breath stuttered.
“You’re so—” Charles’ voice caught, like he couldn’t quite finish the thought. He kissed lower, chest to sternum, until Lewis had to drag his head back up, claiming his mouth again with a kiss that was wetter, messier, more desperate than the last.
Lewis’ fingers fumbled clumsily with the buttons of Charles’ shirt, his frustration building as they refused to give. “Shit—” he muttered against Charles’ mouth, tugging at the fabric. Charles only chuckled, the sound low and warm in his chest, before catching Lewis’ wrists and gently moving them aside.
In the next breath, Charles shifted, flipping their positions with startling ease. Lewis landed with his back against the corner of the couch, slightly slouched, curls falling into his eyes, chest bare and gleaming under the low light. Charles hovered above him, one knee wedged snugly between Lewis’ thighs, pressing up in just the right place.
Their eyes locked—Lewis’ pupils blown wide, Charles’ gaze dark and steady—as Charles slowly, deliberately undid each button of his own shirt. He leaned close enough that Lewis could feel the whisper of his breath when he said, low and steady:
“One of the things I said last night— saresti bellissimo sotto di me…It’s true. You do look beautiful like this.”
Lewis didn’t need the translation. The reverence in Charles’ eyes, the husky certainty in his tone, said everything. He swallowed, shifting against Charles’ thigh, the friction drawing a soft sound from his throat.
Charles undid the last button, letting the shirt slip down his shoulders and fall behind him, his body now pressed flush against Lewis’. His hand slid down, cupping the hardness straining against Lewis’ trousers, thumb brushing just enough to make Lewis hiss through his teeth.
“What do you want tonight?” Charles asked, voice velvet and commanding.
Lewis let out a shaky laugh, half nerves, half arousal, his hips jerking helplessly into Charles’ palm. “Aren’t you the one that’s been chasing me this whole time?”
“But you won,” Charles murmured, accent thicker, eyes fixed on him. “Cosa vuoi, Lewis?” His grip squeezed, teasing, before he leaned closer, lips brushing against Lewis’ ear as he whispered again in Italian, softer, more dangerous:
“Il mio campione… cosa vuoi?”
Lewis blinked up at him, chest rising and falling too fast, his skin flushed where Charles’ fingers teased over the front of his trousers. It took him a second to realize that Charles wasn’t going to move first, that he was waiting—actually waiting—for him to answer.
The weight of that hit Lewis all at once.
He swallowed hard, hips shifting helplessly against Charles’ thigh, his cock aching with every second of delay. He let out a sharp sigh, almost a groan, his head falling back against the couch as his curls brushed his damp forehead.
“God,” Lewis rasped, the word catching in his throat. “You’re really gonna make me say it, huh?”
Charles only smiled, slow and hungry, his palm pressing firmer against him, thumb circling with deliberate laziness.
Lewis’ breath stuttered. He clenched his fists in the cushions, then finally gave in, voice breaking with need.
“Fuck me,” he whispered, then louder, desperate, “Charles—please. Please fuck me.”
The words tore out of him like a confession, the kind he’d been holding back for months.
Charles’ eyes darkened, his jaw flexing as if the plea went straight to his spine. His grip tightened on Lewis’ cock through the fabric, dragging a guttural moan out of him. Then he leaned down, capturing Lewis’ mouth in a bruising kiss, all teeth and tongue and the kind of hunger that made Lewis’ entire body shiver.
Charles didn’t give Lewis a chance to catch his breath. His mouth moved down his throat, kissing, biting, sucking until Lewis’ chest arched helplessly into him. Each button of Lewis’ trousers came undone with impatient fingers, Charles growling softly when the fabric finally gave way and he could wrap his hand properly around him.
Lewis gasped, his hips jerking into Charles’ grip, the sound embarrassingly loud in the quiet room.
Charles pulled back just enough to see his face, to drink in the parted lips, the wet lashes, the way Lewis’ curls were sticking to his temples. He looked ruined already, and Charles hadn’t even gotten him undressed.
“You wanted me to speak to you in Italian to help you study, right?” Charles murmured, his accent heavier now, thick with arousal. His hand stroked slow, deliberate, keeping Lewis pinned with just the sound of his voice.
Lewis blinked, trying to form words, but only managed a broken moan, his mouth falling open against the cushions.
Charles smirked, leaning in to press a hot kiss just below his ear. “Are you sure that’s the only reason, Lewis?”
Lewis whimpered, grinding into his fist, unable to answer.
Charles’ laugh was low, intimate, vibrating against his skin. “Or…” he whispered, lips dragging over Lewis’ jaw, “do you also find it hot when I talk to you in it?”
He punctuated the question with a sharp tug, making Lewis cry out, his hands scrambling up to grab at Charles’ shoulders.
“Fuck,” Lewis groaned, his voice cracking as he finally tilted his head back to meet his gaze, pupils blown wide. “You know I do.”
Charles’ expression softened with something dangerously close to fondness before his hunger returned, sharper than ever.
He stripped Lewis slowly, like he’d been waiting years to savor the sight. He peeled away his trousers, his briefs, every barrier until Lewis lay bare beneath him, chest heaving, thighs tense, cock flushed and leaking against his stomach. Charles spread his hands reverently over him, palms dragging down his ribs, across his hips, thumbs pressing into the deep lines there.
Lewis was already trembling, his back arching into every touch. He bit his lip hard when Charles bent low and wrapped his lips around the head of his cock, sucking wetly, just once, before pulling away with a smirk.
Lewis’ whole body jolted. “Charles—please,” he groaned, already too close, the tension coiling sharp and fast.
Charles gave him three hard strokes, pumping until Lewis’ toes curled—then pulled back entirely, letting him whimper in frustration. He kissed the inside of Lewis’ thigh instead, soothing, but offering no relief.
“Not yet,” Charles murmured, unhurried as he shrugged off his own shirt, baring his chest. He leaned in close, his voice a growl against Lewis’ lips. “Ti voglio spezzare, ma con dolcezza.”
Lewis shuddered, his nails dragging down Charles’ back. “Fuck, Charles, you’re— I can’t—”
“You can.” Charles kissed him hard, then sat back, working open his own trousers. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, and Lewis’ breath hitched at the sight. Charles’ hand stroked it lazily, his eyes fixed on Lewis’ face, watching every twitch, every flicker of need.
“Posso scoparti la bocca, Lewis?” Charles asked lowly, his voice shaking with restraint.
Lewis’ chest rose in a shuddering breath, lips parting helplessly. He nodded before he could think better of it.
“Say it,” Charles demanded, voice rough.
Lewis swallowed, his cheeks burning as his throat tightened with want. He didn’t know exactly what Charles had said, but with the way he stroked himself slowly whilst looking at Lewis’ mouth, he knew. “Yes. Please. Fuck my mouth, Charles.”
The sound Charles made was half a growl, half a moan, like he’d been waiting years to hear those words. Lewis leaned forward from his relaxed posture before Charles cupped his jaw tenderly even as his cock tapped against Lewis’ lips.
“Sei cosi' bella come questa,” he whispered.
Lewis whimpered and opened wide, letting Charles slide in. The first thrust was careful, testing, but the second was deeper, hungrier. Lewis’ eyes fluttered shut as Charles’ hand cradled the back of his head, guiding him down, pulling moans straight from his chest.
“Mi prendi così bene” Charles panted, hips stuttering as he fucked into the wet heat of Lewis’ mouth. His words slipped into Italian between gasps, rough and reverent, every filthy praise making Lewis leak more. “Succhiarlo.”
Charles pulled out just before Lewis could choke, stroking his cheek with trembling fingers. “You like this, don’t you?”
Lewis gasped for breath, eyes glazed and wet. “God, yes. Don’t stop.”
Charles laughed, soft and incredulous, before sliding back into his mouth.
Lewis was seconds from unraveling, his whole body taut. His moans had gone high and broken, his nails digging into Charles’ thighs.
And then, suddenly, Charles pulled out of his mouth, letting his cock fall wet and heavy.
Lewis let out a sharp, wrecked whine, collapsing back against the couch.
“Shh,” Charles murmured, moving down to him in one smooth motion. He kissed him, deep and messy. As Lewis gasped into it, Charles’ hand slid between his thighs, parting them wide before pressing two slick fingers inside him.
Lewis arched, the sound he made raw and guttural, his body clenching tight around the stretch.
Charles dropped his face into the crook of Lewis’ neck, groaning at how hot and wet he already was. His lips brushed over damp skin as he pressed in deeper, curling his fingers just right. “Suoni bellissimo,” he whispered against his throat.
Lewis’ head tipped back against the cushions, his curls sticking to his temples, his chest heaving. He could barely hear anything over the rushing in his ears—it was like static, his pulse pounding everywhere at once, his heart slamming against his ribs.
Charles’ free hand grabbed at his hip, holding him steady as his fingers worked him open. “That’s it, baby,” he groaned, his voice breaking with hunger. “That’s it. Take it for me. Mi fai impazzire.”
Lewis let out a sob of pleasure, clutching at Charles’ shoulders, feeling himself unravel with every thrust of those fingers. His thighs trembled, his breath hitched in sharp, desperate gasps.
“Charles,” he moaned, half-plea, half-prayer.
Charles nipped at his throat, groaning right back into his skin as if he was just as close. “I’ve got you, Lewis. I’ve got you.”
Charles worked him open steadily, each drag of his fingers pulling another broken sound from Lewis’ lips. His thumb traced lazy circles at his hip, grounding him even as he stretched him further.
Lewis clung to him, shuddering with every curl inside him, but the ache in his chest was almost worse than the ache between his legs. He wanted more—needed it.
His eyes fluttered open, hazy and wet, locking onto Charles above him. “Charles,” he gasped, voice trembling. “Fuck—please… just—fuck me already. I need you inside me.”
Charles groaned like he’d been waiting his whole life to hear those words. He pulled his fingers out slowly, watching Lewis whimper at the loss, and immediately leaned in to kiss him.
It wasn’t hungry this time—it was soft, almost sweet. He pressed gentle kisses against Lewis’ mouth, the corner of his lips, the slope of his cheekbone, as though he couldn’t stop himself.
Lewis’ chest tightened, a sudden laugh breaking out of him, small and helpless. He smiled up at Charles, curls sticking damp to his forehead. “God, you’re cute,” he whispered, shaking his head slightly. “Even now. How do you do that?”
Charles huffed out a breathless laugh of his own, pressing his forehead to Lewis’. “Because it’s you,” he murmured, kissing him again, slower this time.
Lewis’ smile lingered as he kissed back, his heart thumping wildly, almost harder than the ache in his cock. He pulled at Charles’ shoulders, urging him closer. “Then come on, mon amour,” he said softly, almost teasing. “Don’t make me beg again.”
Charles’ grin widened, wicked and tender all at once. “Oh, I like when you beg,” he whispered, reaching down to stroke himself, lining up with a groan. “Apri le gambe,” he motioned for Lewis to spread his legs further out.
The cushions dipped under their weight as he coaxed Lewis’ leg up over the backrest, his other thigh caught firmly in Charles’ grip. Lewis was practically folded in half, sprawled out beneath him, his chest heaving, lips parted, pupils blown wide.
“Hold on,” Charles murmured, voice low and strained as he pressed the head of his cock against him. He leaned down, capturing Lewis’ mouth in another kiss, swallowing the sound Lewis made when he finally pushed forward.
The stretch was deep, sudden, and Lewis’ back arched against the couch with a choked groan. Charles let out his own guttural sound, forehead pressing hard against Lewis’ temple as he bottomed out, hips flush to him.
“Fuck,” Lewis gasped, nails digging into the cushions. His whole body trembled with the intensity of it, the sheer pressure of being opened like that. He blinked up at Charles through hazy eyes, breath catching when Charles adjusted his grip, holding him steady, holding him close.
Charles kissed the edge of his jaw, breath hot and uneven. “You feel—merda, you feel incredible,” he whispered, voice shaking as he fought to hold himself back.
Lewis moaned at the words, legs twitching around him, every nerve alight. “Charles,” he breathed, almost helpless.
Charles groaned again, teeth grazing Lewis’ skin as he forced himself to still, just for a moment, savoring the way Lewis clung to him. “Mi ecciti così tanto,” he murmured, voice rough but reverent, “sei perfetto like this.”
The words sent another shiver down Lewis’ spine, his lips parting in a trembling smile even through the overwhelm.
Charles pulled back just an inch before pushing in again, a slow, deliberate grind that had Lewis gasping like the air had been punched out of him. The second thrust was harder, sharper, rocking him against the corner of the couch.
Lewis’ head tipped back, curls falling into his face, his voice breaking into a needy, “Oh—fuck, Charles.”
Charles’ jaw clenched, his rhythm picking up as if he’d been holding himself back for far too long. His hips snapped forward with urgency, each thrust deep, relentless, yet every time his free hand smoothed over Lewis’ side, his chest, his thigh — grounding him, touching him like he was something precious even while fucking into him hard enough to make the couch creak.
Lewis clung to him, hands grabbing at his arms, his shoulders, his back, anywhere he could reach, his body trembling with each slam of Charles’ hips. His smile flickered through the haze of pleasure, shaky but there, because Charles was treating him like both a prize and a prayer, and it was undoing him completely.
Charles dropped his mouth to Lewis’ ear, breath ragged. “You wanted this… mmh? You wanted me like this?” His accent dragged over the words, voice low and rough.
Lewis could barely answer, only a strangled, desperate “Yes—yes, Charles—” spilling out of him, his nails raking down Charles’ back.
“Good,” Charles groaned, snapping his hips forward harder, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room. “Così bello,” he whispered in Italian, pressed right against Lewis’ neck. “You’re beautiful like this, cuore mio.”
Lewis let out a strangled moan at the words, body arching, his leg trembling in Charles’ grip as pleasure sparked white-hot inside him.
Lewis was right on the edge, the kind of trembling brink where his body begged to let go — and then Charles pulled out. Lewis gasped, chest heaving, but before he could complain Charles tapped his side firmly.
“Flip over,” Charles rasped.
Lewis obeyed without thinking, rolling onto his knees, bracing himself against the back of the couch. His ass lifted high, chest pressed down against the cushions, his braids tumbling into his face. Charles slid behind him, steady hands guiding him into position before thrusting back inside in one smooth, unrelenting stroke.
Lewis nearly choked on his own moan, the sound muffled as his face pressed into the couch. Charles gripped one of his hips hard, the other hand slipping around, sliding up his chest before finally reaching for his jaw. With a firm but tender touch, he lifted Lewis’ face up from the cushions, forcing him to raise his head so his moans weren’t swallowed.
“Let me hear you,” Charles demanded, his voice husky, broken by groans. “Lascia che ti senta.”
Lewis clutched at the cushions anyway, his knuckles white, his whole body shuddering under the rhythm Charles set — relentless, deep, each thrust pushing him further into the couch. His cock dragged against the fabric, rough enough to send jolts of pleasure straight through him.
“Fuck—fuck, Charles—” Lewis whined, loud and desperate, trying to hold himself together, trying not to give in too soon.
Charles was relentless, hips snapping forward with a rhythm that was equal parts hunger and desperation. His groans were raw, spilling freely now, little whimpers breaking in his throat each time Lewis clenched around him. He was trying so hard to keep himself together, but Lewis could feel the way Charles’ chest trembled against his back, the way his breath kept catching like he was on the verge of begging.
“Lewis—fuck, you feel so good,” Charles gasped, his voice high, cracking with pleasure. “You don’t know—how long I’ve wanted this—”
Lewis’ head dropped against the couch cushion again, muffling the loud, wanton sounds tearing out of him, until Charles grabbed his jaw and pulled him back up, forcing him to let every moan spill into the open air. Charles’ hand shook against his skin, a broken whimper leaving his lips as he rutted harder, chasing the feeling he’d been denied for too long.
“Charles—oh god—” Lewis whined, his hands clawing at the fabric beneath him. His body was stretched, pinned, overwhelmed by every thrust.
Charles’ voice cracked again, this time dissolving into Italian, his words tumbling out between panting moans. “Sei un sogno… un sogno, Lewis. Così stretto—oh, dio—non riesco—” His hips faltered for a moment, then slammed deeper. “Ti voglio sempre… sempre—”
The rough rhythm, the raw honesty in his voice, the way his accent curled around every word — it broke Lewis apart.
He came suddenly, violently, with no warning, a sharp cry ripping from his throat as his cock spilled hot against the cushions, his whole body shuddering uncontrollably.
Charles groaned low and desperate, the sound almost pained, but he didn’t stop. He kept fucking Lewis through it, his thrusts ragged now, chasing his own release, pulling broken whimpers from deep in his chest as Lewis’ body squeezed tight around him.
Lewis could barely breathe, his cries dissolving into low moans, his body still twitching from the force of his orgasm — and Charles was still moving, still holding him open, still unraveling right behind him. “Sto—sto venendo.”
Charles’ thrusts grew sloppy, desperate, until with a broken groan he slammed deep, pressing flush against Lewis’ back as his body seized. His breath hitched sharply, then he buried himself with a final shudder, coming hard inside Lewis, his moans muffled against Lewis’ damp shoulder. They clung to each other through it, trembling, sweaty, breathless.
Lewis’ chest rose and fell wildly, his forehead damp with sweat as he turned his head just enough for Charles to reach him. Their mouths met in a soft kiss, slow and lazy, then Charles scattered smaller kisses along Lewis’ jaw, his cheek, even the tip of his nose. Both of them groaned when Charles finally eased out, the loss sharp and immediate.
Lewis slumped forward onto the couch cushions, completely spent, before eventually shifting and collapsing onto the couch entirely with glassy eyes, too out of it to move.
Charles disappeared for a moment, the sound of water running faint in the bathroom, and returned with a wet towel. Kneeling, he carefully cleaned Lewis first — tender, unhurried, murmuring little apologies when Lewis twitched from overstimulation. Only after did he wipe himself down, tossing the towel aside carelessly.
Before Lewis could process what was happening, Charles bent down and scooped him up, strong arms sliding under his knees and back. Lewis blinked, dazed, as Charles carried him bridal style across the room, lowering him gently onto the bed. He rifled quickly through his suitcase, pulling out two pairs of clean boxers and handing one to Lewis. They slipped them on, the air cool against their sticky skin.
Lewis flopped back against the pillows, breath finally steadying, and muttered, “I want to shower.”
Charles crawled in beside him, pulling the duvet up, his eyes heavy-lidded. “Too tired,” he mumbled, already half gone.
Lewis huffed a soft laugh, rolling his eyes. “Charles, c’mon, we’re dirty—”
“Sleep time,” Charles interrupted, shaking his head stubbornly before leaning in to kiss him again. It was soft, lingering, then another, and another, until Lewis stopped arguing.
Lewis sighed, but he didn’t move. He let it slide, just this once.
The room settled into silence, the faint sound of fans chanting outside the hotel filtering in through the glass. Lewis’ lips curved upward, a tired smile tugging at him as he remembered the roar of Monza, the champagne, the podium, the win. What a day.
He turned his head. Charles was already asleep, lips parted slightly, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. Lewis watched him for a long moment, warmth curling in his chest, before whispering into the quiet, barely audible—
“I love you too.”
Lewis blinked awake slowly, the kind of half-conscious stirring that came only after a night of exhaustion. For a moment he wasn’t sure where he was, until the weight behind him shifted and he realized—Charles.
The events yesterday slowly came back to him, from their win to Charles’ confession at the after-party, down to him being fucked senseless on the couch.
Charles was spooned up against him completely, arm heavy around Lewis’ waist, chest pressed flush to his back. At some point in the night, they’d reached for the comforter; now it cocooned them both, warm and heavy, a shield from the brightness spilling in through the curtains.
Lewis squinted at the clock on the bedside table. Nearly eleven. His body ached in ways both familiar and new, a dull throb in his lower back making him hiss softly when he shifted. Still, he reached for his phone, careful not to disturb Charles too much.
Twitter was still ablaze. His win dominated the feed: clips of him standing tall on the car, the deafening cheers, the champagne-soaked podium. Fans were still waving flags, chanting his name, and singing songs of joy all throughout the world. And threaded through it all, endless videos of him and Charles — the hugs, the looks, the way they celebrated like they were the only two in the world.
A low groan sounded behind him. Charles buried his face into the back of Lewis’ shoulder, voice rough from sleep. “Mmm…good morning.”
Lewis smiled to himself at the raspy sound, locking his phone before rolling carefully onto his other side. His body protested, a sharp twinge making him hiss softly, but he pushed through it until he was face-to-face with Charles.
Charles’ eyes were barely open, lashes fluttering, his expression soft and dazed. Lewis leaned in and pressed a feather-light kiss to his cheek.
“Buongiorno,” he murmured in response.
Charles smiled, slow and sleepy, his arm tightening instinctively around Lewis’ waist to pull him closer.