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They have a sort of loose plan.
They’ll come out, but gently. Quietly. When one of them retires maybe, or when both of them do.
Seb isn’t ashamed of who he loves, but he’s never put his home life out into the open and doesn’t really understand why he should change that now. Same love means he shouldn’t have to act differently.
The people who need to know, who they think should know, have known for years.
It’s everyone else they will have to let in at some point.
Seb would also probably come out now if Lewis asked him to.
But it’s Lewis that hesitates.
He loves Seb, he loves the life they have and the relationship they’ve built and he doesn’t want any of that to be put up against hateful comments on social media and the abuse he’s always taken.
But it could be important for so many people, so they have their sort-of plan.
It isn’t like they’ll disappear away from F1 whenever they retire anyway, even if Sebastian threatens that every other week.
Lewis isn’t done with the sport yet and won’t be even once he’s no longer in the cockpit. And Seb would probably wither away in about a month if he tried to stay away completely - sometimes Lewis really thinks no one loves the sport more than Sebastian. Certainly no one knows as many obscure facts and figures.
Lewis harbours a suspicion that Seb is lining up Masi’s job in his sights. It makes him feel a little sorry for the drivers and teams that will be on the grid when he succeeds. They won’t stand a chance.
So even if they don’t come out while they’re drivers, it’s not like they won’t still be part of the sport. Besides, what they’ve achieved will still be there.
And the thing is, if Lewis is completely honest, he just doesn’t want to see the hatred turned on Seb.
Because he knows he won’t be able to handle that. And that is what stops him every time they start to consider if maybe now is the time.
Seb says he doesn’t care. And Lewis knows he isn’t lying about that. But Lewis also loves him, so even if Seb can ignore it and not let it affect him, it would break Lewis’s heart. If it was just Lewis it would be so much easier.
He knows Seb worries about it for the same reason. It’s just that, Seb is still a little shit sometimes. And there’s a part of him that will always respond to hate and heartbreak by putting a finger up and coming out fighting.
So they have their maybe-plan and in the meantime they’re happy as they are, doing what they can and protecting what they have.
And then Lewis wins his eighth world championship.
The final race is crazy.
The end of the entire season has been crazy, closing and closing that gap between him and Max.
They’ve made such a big deal about this fight, and it is close and it has been a long time since the title has come down to the last race, but it’s definitely not been Lewis’s favourite season.
He likes a challenge, he has nothing to prove to anyone but himself but sometimes being out front isn’t as much fun as going wheel to wheel with the best drivers in the world.
Still, he could have done with a little less wheel-to-helmet action.
Seb had barely let him out of bed for the week between races after that crash. Practically smothered him in pillows and duvets while Seb refused to engage in anything more than kissing until he eventually calmed down about it. Or he got horny himself, Lewis still isn’t sure what came first.
Telling Sebastian that he’d had worse before certainly hadn’t brought Seb back to bed any quicker, that mind running through every race to work out which crash had left him worse off. It’s not like Sebastian would have known about his injuries at the time; you never give that kind of information away to the competition after all. So he’d sat back in his prison of cotton and down and watched as the races flickered away inside Seb’s brain, blue eyes glistening as he replayed every crash and shunt.
By the time Seb was blinking back tears, Lewis had decided to propose.
On reflection, it might have been the proposal the next day that got Seb back into his arms.
They’re going to marry during the break.
If Charles can manage to keep it quiet it’ll be a miracle but Seb has sworn him to secrecy and Lewis has got George and Lando watching him too.
Seb had resorted to threatening Daniel to keep his mouth shut, although Lewis suspects that had less to do with Daniel accidentally blurting it out to anyone and more to get the jokes to stop.
Surprisingly it had been Kimi they most needed to watch out for. He’d smiled all the way through his press briefing after Seb told him, which behind the mask wouldn’t have been too bad. Only he kept talking too, probably more words than anyone aside from Seb and Minttu had ever heard from him. Poor Esteban in there with him had looked terrified and the media had scrambled around for a few days trying to figure out what had got him so happy.
Jenson keeps sending them snippets of best man speeches. Lewis has already asked his brother but he can see Seb weakening every time Jenson texts him another bad joke.
Not all the drivers know about them. Why should they? It’s not like they made a big announcement about it.
One day they went from friends to more than friends and if Fernando is to be believed not a lot seemed to change. On the outside anyway.
Apparently they’ve been eye-sexing for years. Seb had snorted water up his nose when Mick had told them that, was still coughing and spluttering while Pierre and Esteban agreed.
It was when they pulled out their phones and started scrolling through photos as proof, that Lewis had finally grabbed Seb’s elbow and dragged him out of the restaurant, paying the bill on the way.
He’d done his own research later that night, Seb curled up around him watching a film, as Lewis flicked through his phone.
It had been…enlightening.
They really hadn’t been subtle at all. He’s amazed the mainstream media still aren’t writing about it.
He’d made some kind of noise when he saw one photo, the image capturing him and Seb just after he’d won his fifth title.
When Seb had questioned him, Lewis had tilted the phone down and asked him if he’d been about to kiss him.
“Probably.” Seb had said. “You’re very handsome when you win. Very tempting.”
The phone had landed on the floor with a clatter and that had been that for the rest of the evening.
They really are terribly unsubtle sometimes. It makes it even more ridiculous when they let someone else in and they seem surprised.
Sometimes Lewis wonders whether they’re both just subconsciously trying to make people figure it out now.
But then he’ll look at the photos of them on the podium after Seb’s first win with Ferrari and realise that no, they’ve just always been that way.
Abu Dhabi is special.
But this year Lewis just wants it over.
He has something bigger to focus on this year, he’s ready for the season to be over so he can get on with those winter plans.
He knows Seb feels the same way, smiles twice as big these last few weeks. Everyone has noticed how much sparkle has come back to his eyes.
Lewis knows some of it is Sebastian falling back in love with racing this year. Some of it is being away from the pressure of Ferrari, but he fancies that a big part of Seb’s happiness comes from the same place Lewis’s does.
But they’re both racers and the last race of the season is always special, even if the title has already been won.
So Lewis kisses Seb goodbye as he leaves for his pre-race training and then he shuts out anything that isn’t brake points and track limits.
He shuts out what needs to happen in the race behind him if he’s going to win the championship and just focuses on winning the race.
And then the lights go out and he does.
Bono comes on the radio first as he crosses the line, the chequered flag flying. The calm voice in his ear a little higher pitched than usual. He’s had some idea what’s been going on but it hasn’t been the smoothest of races out front so he hadn’t had space to keep much attention on anyone else.
Still, there’s a thrum running through his body that keeps his heart pounding even as he waves at the marshals.
“Just wait.” Bono says and Lewis laughs.
“If you call me sunshine, I'll never forgive you.” He says back and hears a strangled laugh across the radio.
“You’re not Vettel.” Bono says instead and then a little amazed; “he’s done it again.”
And then Toto is on the radio shouting that Max hasn’t made it up higher than fifth and Lewis is World Champion and he’s broken Michael’s record.
It’s only when he finishes his celebratory lap and doughnuts, and comes into parc ferme, pulling up to the number 1 spot, the cheers almost deafening and the camera flashes just a wall of light ahead of him, that he realises Bono hadn’t been talking about him.
Because there’s a green car on his left, already parked up against the number 3. A familiar body beside it, arse in the air as he settles the steering wheel back in place and a big white 5 shining under the lights.
Lewis is out of his car faster than he thought he could still manage. His hands shake as he shoves the wheel back into place and then he’s tugging off his helmet.
Everyone’s shouting his name, but he tears off his balaclava and HANS device and he’s barely dropped his hand down when he feels a tap against his elbow and he turns around.
Seb has been the most beautiful part of Lewis’s life for a long time now, but every now and again Lewis is reminded of that. His eyes are soft even as his smile rivals Daniel’s biggest and Lewis grabs him close before Seb can make the first move.
His helmet smacks into Seb’s back and Seb’s own helmet cracks against Lewis’s side as he tries to catch his balance.
“How the fuck did you make it to third?” Lewis asks before Seb can say anything.
Sebastian laughs into his ear, giddy and loud even over the cheers. “I had a lot of incentive.”
Lewis pulls back, and he can see the FIA officials behind Seb waiting to take them through to be weighed, can see the drivers running up from their parked cars wanting to congratulate him, the cameras and microphones and journalists pressed in close with the teams of engineers and they should separate before it really is obvious.
And then Seb bites his lip, and his eyes well and his smile wobbles. “You made history, Lewis. Look what you’ve done.”
Lewis blinks and the world flickers and sharpens and then his mouth is against Seb’s.
There’s silence, although it could just be the blood rushing in Lewis’s ears before Seb kisses him back, brings his empty hand up to Lewis’s braids and cups the back of his head and sound comes flooding back.
The cheers are different then, the shouting more insistent.
Lewis ignores it, pulling Seb closer, his arms circling Seb’s smaller body the way they have for years.
They have to separate eventually, although if they didn’t have to breathe Lewis thinks he would hold them in that moment forever.
But Seb sucks in air awkwardly against his lips, almost choking and Lewis let’s his arms loosen and they lean back.
Seb’s lips are only marginally redder than his cheeks and ears, but as Lewis frantically searches his eyes, he doesn’t see a single sign of regret.
Seb licks his lips and Lewis watches as he takes a quick look around them, hand still curled in Lewis’s hair. “Sorry about the plan.” Lewis says.
Seb shrugs, meeting his eyes again. “It was pretty loosie goosie anyway.”
Lewis kisses him again because it’s the only way he knows to get Seb to stop with the accents.
Eventually people stop asking questions.
Seb takes his phone away that night after the celebrations are over and distracts him quite thoroughly from worrying about what the internet is saying.
They both taste of champagne and sweat and Lewis doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of any of it.
The next morning, they curl up in bed with room service tea and coffee and Roscoe by their feet.
“How did you make it to third from twelfth?” Lewis asks again, fingers tangled in Seb’s curls.
Seb hums against his chest, nuzzling his nose against the North point of his compass.
“I’m a very good driver.”
Lewis finds out how he did it much later, when he watches the race back after they’ve returned home.
He doesn’t expect to see much of Sebastian’s overtakes, he’s not been deaf to the complaints about how little coverage the rest of the grid has had this year.
But he barely has to fast forward before he spots that green car, speeding along the track and forcing Esteban’s Alpine as wide as it can go before it meets the run off.
He winces and flinches his way through the rest of the race and when it’s over he goes to find Sebastian in the kitchen.
He’s tipping freshly made jam into a line of glass jars and Lewis counts them quickly. Nine little jars.
He can smell bread baking.
“Are they all coming here, or are we going on an apology tour?”
Seb sticks his tongue out and keeps pouring.
“They’ll be here tomorrow.”
“I love you.” Lewis says, reaching over to start putting the lids on the jars.
“You should marry me then.” Seb replies.
And two months later Lewis does.