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The first time he'd met Lewis was at some sort of gathering, he couldn't remember exactly what it was, but he'd noticed him the moment he walked in. Not that it was hard to, he did sort of stand out against the backdrop of McLaren white he was standing against. He'd stood in the corner, wondering where he'd seen the young man before, watching him greet Nico excitedly.

It was only as the evening was drawing to a close, after the bar had stopped serving him, that he finally had a chance to talk to the young man he'd been near on stalking for the past few hours.

"You've been watching me a lot."

Jenson turned to the voice behind him. "You're British!" He exclaimed with a happy grin.

The other man raised an eyebrow and nodded slowly. "What did you expect me to be?"

Jenson shrugged. "German I suppose, far too many Germans," he paused to stick out his tongue at Sebastian who chose that moment to walk past and punch him in the arm. "You seemed awful friendly with Nico."

"We were in GP2 together."

"Do I get to know your name?"

Lewis looked slightly surprised at the abrupt subject change, but told him anyway.

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They'd all said all they needed was time, time would make Jenson come back to him, but time was passing quickly and still the other Brit showed no sign of wanting him back. Not that Lewis blamed him, not when he'd pushed him away, so intent on winning his second championship that he'd ignored him. He'd failed in both quests; keeping his man and claiming his title. He'd fought for the wrong one and now he was fighting a losing battle for the right one, for Jenson. His pride was too strong to let him come back and Mark wasn't helping much, protecting him from the world and his heart from his team mate, but he would fight, would continue to tell Jenson he loved him, even if time had run out for them.

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When Lewis had started racing he'd done everything he could to stay on the track for as long as possible, he wanted to be there forever, driving around and around, faster and faster as his father shouted for him to stop, that the session was over, and to come here now. He felt suffocated by his family, so constrained by their rules and his mother's strict routines. He didn't want to go to school, didn't want to sit still for Sunday lunch, he wanted to get out and see the world, see the cities he would be living in as a Formula 1 driver.

Formula 1 was nothing like he'd imagined it, it was bigger and better than GP2, so much more exotic and special, and he was right in the middle of it, right where he wanted to be at McLaren, with Fernando Alonso, the man he'd watched from his sofa for years, watched him win two world championships, here alongside him and the world could get no better.

Fernando was not someone he could get along with easily, he'd tried his best, he really had, but the Spaniard had defences a mile high and Lewis could see no way of breaking through them, of talking to him and discussing the team with him and so eventually he gave up. He had no one to talk to, no friends on the grid, and suddenly he missed the routine of home, missed his mum's cooking, missed his friends and family. Formula 1 was nothing like he'd imagined it, it was bigger and scarier than GP2, with harsher rules and rutheless drivers who gave no mercy if you made the slightest of mistakes, on or off track. He wanted to give up and go home, wanted to abandon this all together and just curl on the sofa with his dad, pretend he'd never met Fernando Alonso, go on thinking of him as a fantastic driver and nothing else.

"You alright mate?"

An accent so like his own, so perfectly British he thought he might cry, and everything was alright again, Formula 1 suddenly felt more like home.

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Jenson was drunk, far more drunk than he should be, he had nothing to celebrate, no sorrows to drown, and yet here he was, lost in the middle of another city he no longer remembered the name of, so similar and yet so different to everywhere else in the world. Another language he didn't understand shouted at him from across the street, a greeting or an insult he could be sure, but he smiled anyway, the motion hurting his cheekbones with its falseness.

The bottle in his hands no longer felt stable and it slid from his grip, the last fizzy remnants of whatever had been in it hissing as they hit the warm ground, the broken glass reflecting the orange streetlights above him as he walked on, swaying slightly, pushing himself off the walls to stay in a straight line, not knowing where he was going. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he fumbled for it, just managing to press the correct buttons with shaky fingers to read the text from his teammate.

"Where r u?"

He wanted to call Lewis back, wanted to tell him he didn't know, that he was lost and the tendrils of fear were beginning to seep through the drunken haze, but he didn't want the other man to know how drunk he was, didn't want to see the look of disappointment in those dark eyes again. His phone buzzed again, a call this time, and he couldn't not answer it, Lewis would worry.

"Jens?"

Standing beneath a street light across the road was a familiar silhouette, short and slender, his pose concerned, unmistakably his team mate.

"Come on."

His smile didn't hurt this time.

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They'd been all over the world together, well, not quite, but a lot of it, a remarkable amount for two unremarkable boys from England. Not that Lewis was unremarkable in any way, he thought with a small smile, catching sight of the photograph of the pair of them over the fireplace. They'd certainly spent well over their fair share of time on aeroplanes between the two of them, to and from races, to and from home, and always back to Swizerland. Always back to the home they had built together at the foot of the mountains, in a small village where no one cared to comment about two drivers living together, where they were still in touch with the world and their families, but far enough away to have their own privacy, their own little hideaway for when the world got too close for comfort.

He pulled the blanket tighter around himself starting to doze off as the cold November air penetrating through the thick walls of the small house, buffetting the flames of the dying fire he'd built several hours ago when he'd got in. The cup of tea he'd made was cold, sitting untouched on the small table beside him.

The door shut with a soft click, the latch dropping filtering through his subconscience, drawing him slowly out of sleep as he hear the familiar soft laugh.

"Jens? I brought dinner. From halfway across the world," he said with a smile. "Just needs to be heated up."

Jenson watched his lover pad softly around the kitchen, still in his team gear, slightly tanned from the middle eastern sun, not that it was noticable to anyone but him. No one but him knew the other Brit inside out, and no one but him ever would, even if he had to give up racing, give up seeing the world, he would, he'd give it all up in an instant if Lewis asked it of him.

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Honda had pulled out, it was official, he no longer had a seat in Formula 1, no longer had a team, no longer had any hope. No one was going to give him a chance, not with so many better drivers up for grabs. He'd thought for one insanely brilliant moment that McLaren may have him, that he could be alonside Lewis, that whatever they had might become something wonderful if they were allowed to be together. No. McLaren didn't want him. No one wanted him, not him, not Rubens. Neither of them had a hope left, both eaten up and spat out by a sport both of them had dedicated their lives to.

It would be so easy he thought, eyeing the medicine cupboard in his bathroom through the open door, so easy to end it now, to not worry about anything, not his impending loss of team, nor the thought of being torn away from whatever it was he was creating with Lewis. He picked up the bottle of vodka from beside his bed and took another swig, his mind remarkably clear despite having drunk half the bottle. He swayed as he stood up, made his way to the bathroom and opened the cupboard door, eyeing the contents. He wasn't seriously considering it was he, wasn't actually going to do it-

"Jenson, don't even think about it."

He turned and met scared, dark eyes, Lewis' posture ready to physically restrain himself if need be and knew that no, he wasn't really going to, because no matter how hard the future got, this thing with Lewis was worth all of it.

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The knowledge that he was well on his way to being the world champion should have made the world a brighter place, should have made him happier, everyone said that winning made everyone and everything around you more beautiful, that you appreciated everything the world had to offer, but there was one thing tainting his ability to be as happy as possible.

He wanted to share it with Lewis. He wanted to share everything with Lewis; the front row of the grid, the podium, his bed, his team, his life, he wanted to be with Lewis all the time, not just when the world wasn't looking, when they could sneak away together. He wanted to get on a plane and fly away, take the other Brit to a tropical island where no one had ever heard of them, where they could lay on the beach together, where no one would disturb them.

"Jenson. What were conditions like out there for you today?"

Instead he smiled and carried on as usual, letting everyone think his happiness was for the wins he was achieving, for such success in a team which almost didn't exist, no one need ever know he was smiling for the shy grins the dark McLaren driver sent him whenever their eyes met.

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The summer break was long, too long, and Lewis' holiday was even longer still, especially as he was off with Adrian again, lounging half naked on a yacht with him. The rational part of his mind reminded him that there were others with them, and as much as Adrian fancied Lewis, Lewis wasn't going to jump into bed with him, not without an insane amount of alcohol in his system anyway. And they both knew that Jenson was the one who drank stupidly in their relationship. No, Lewis was safe, just too far away. Jenson wanted him here, now, by his side and never to leave him again.

He'd almost asked Lewis to marry him before he went away, considered dressing him in white silk and parading him through the small church they sometimes went to nearby, telling the world just who the Brit belonged to. Instead he'd placed a gold ring on his finger, no proposal, no formalities, no announcements, just a promise between the two of them, no witnesses, no evidence except the matching gold bands.

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Lewis had tried not to let the hatred he was receiving from Fernando's fans affect him, had tried to ignore the blatantly racist insults thrown his way and continued on as though it were not happening, ignoring the few journalists who asked him how it made him feel. Eventually, however, he went and hid in his motorhome, excusing himself to use the bathroom and found himself staring into the mirror above the sink. He could understand why they hated him, after all, they all blamed him for the Spaniard's awful time at McLaren, hated him for depriving Fernando of another world championship, which was rubbish, but they believed it all the same. Could they find nothing to insult about him other than the colour of his skin?

The mirror taunted him, staring blankly back at him until he snapped, smashing his fist into the glass, shattering it all over the floor, the sink, glittering shards reflecting the harsh light back against him, creating bright spots on his jeans as he stood there, vaguley aware of the blood dripping from his hand, tears prickling at the back of his eyes as he remembered his father telling him that he was going to be great, nothing was going to stand in his way, that no one cared about skin colour now, and yet where was he? He'd vanished somewhere, into the hospitality suite with someone the one time he was needed.

Strong arms wrapped around his waist and chest, drawing him back against a taller body, not saying a word, just holding him, protecting him from the hatred of the world.

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Someone had once said to him to be careful what he wished for, that it might just come true. At the time he hadn't completley understood the warning, he'd been too young, but Formula 1 had stripped him of what was left of his innocence, had revealed the world for what it was. He'd wished for a World Championship and got it. He'd paid for it the next year. He'd wished for a drive with McLaren and paid for it with frustration and anger when the car didn't work, with Fernando's hatred of him, Heikki's frequent indifference when they were alone and the pressure which had stopped him from sleeping at times.

He recalled a song from the radio many years ago, one he used to hear as he watched his mother preparing dinner in the kitchen.

"Don't push too far your dreams are china in your hands."

His dreams may have shattered, but Jenson wasn't a dream, he was stronger than China. He may have more flaws, but he wouldn't break no matter how far Lewis pushed him.