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Not bad for a boy from Stevenage, he sends to his dad, the selfie he took with Rihanna - the Rihanna - accompanying it.
The champagne has gone to his head already, leaving him fuzzy and warm and smiling at nothing as he sits on the toilet. He still can’t believe he’s here, almost ignored the invitation at first thinking why would they possibly want him, of all people.
He’s not sure how long he stays there for, pants around his ankles, stifling his giggles, but it’s long enough for someone to knock on the cubicle door. There’s a pair of shiny boots visible beneath the door - American toilets always have such big gaps .
“Sorry - one sec.” He stutters out, quickly runs his hand along the toilet roll to find the end of it.
He tries not to think about how embarrassing it is for this to happen at the Met Gala, of all places, as he shuffles his trousers back on.
“Take your time.” A voice calls from outside. With the American accent he can’t tell if it’s supposed to be sarcastic or genuine - never can tell with these people, but he tries quickly to place it. New York, maybe. New Jersey. He’s not sure he can tell the difference between the two.
“Sorry, mate.” He opens the door to be greeted by the view of someone’s chest, a bow tie perched on top of it.
“Lewis?” The man says, like they know each other, like he’s waiting for Lewis to say his name back.
This isn’t good - Nico’s always telling him he needs to pay more attention when he meets new people, but then sometimes he just can’t help it, his brain doesn’t seem to work like that, like Nico’s. He didn’t grow up with a dad who knew how to move about these circles like it came as easy as breathing.
He has to crane his neck to look at the man opposite him, hoping that if he does something might click. He is striking; all big eyes and bleach blonde hair, pouty lips that he licks when Lewis looks at him.
Maybe he’s just a model, he thinks, maybe he’s not supposed to know him.
That’s a bad thought, though. Demeaning. He’s trying to be better these days - more aware of things. A feminist - though he’s not sure he should call himself a feminist. It’s all a little hazy, right now.
The other man is still looking at him expectantly. He still has no idea who he is.
“Yeah, hi, man.” He goes with. Inoffensive, unassuming. Make of that what you will, he thinks.
It doesn’t fool the other man.
“Miles.” He bites his lip, as if he’s trying to hold in a laugh. “I’m on your table - other side of Rihanna.”
Shit.
“Right - yes, of course.” Lewis runs a hand through his hair. Now this is more like a boy from Stevenage. “Sorry, man. Terrible memory.”
Miles just smiles, eyes crinkling up at the corners. He’s got glasses on, thin gold frames perched on his nose. Lewis wonders whether they’re prescription - his stylist has been telling him glasses are all the rage these days, whether you need them or not.
“Understandable. If I’d been talking to Rihanna I don’t think I’d remember my own name.” He laughs, and the sound is so nice that for a second Lewis forgets to feel guilty.
“Sorry, do you mind…?” Comes a voice from behind Miles, a man waiting behind them for the toilet.
Before he can move, Miles has a hand on his shoulder and leads him slightly over to one side. His hand is so big, fingers stretching out over his shoulder blade. His grip is firm and heavy, but gentle. It lingers on his shoulder for a little longer than it needs to and, normally, Lewis would shrug someone like that off him but he can’t help thinking that Miles’ hands would give a great post-race massage.
He quickly squashes that thought. Maybe he’s had a bit too much to drink.
“All yours, dude.” Miles says happily, easily, as if he wasn’t waiting for it himself.
“Didn’t you want it?” He whispers, once the man has walked past and shut the door. He remembers Nico’s stories about Michael, the agonising minutes he would spend waiting for the other man to free up the toilet before a race.
“I’m talking to you.” Miles smiles, as if to say obviously. “Unless, you want to get back to Rihanna.”
“I…”
Of course, Rihanna . He’ll have to wash his hands before he goes back to her.
He can’t seem to find the words to finish his sentence. Miles’ eyes are so big, looking at him so warmly.
“I’ll let you get back to her.” Miles winks, and then his hand comes up to pat Lewis’ cheek.
He flinches, involuntarily, and Miles just smiles wider. He should object - he doesn’t like strangers touching him, especially not his face, but Miles’ grin is so disarming.
Ok, he’s definitely drunker than he thought.
He can’t stop thinking about Miles as he walks back to his seat, doesn’t even realise that he’s missed the chance to catch Beyonce, alone, until it’s too late.
“Who is he?” He whispers to Rihanna, nodding at Miles’ currently vacant seat.
“Says he’s a fencer.” She replies, blotting her lipstick on a tissue.
“A fencer?”
All Lewis can think about is garden fences. He tries to imagine Miles with a toolbag around his waist, protective goggles on. A dusty, dirty polo shirt on his body. Carrying mugs of tea out to him.
It doesn’t fit with the man he’s just met in the toilets.
“Like, at the Olympics.” She explains. Right, he should probably know that.
—
“So you two - are you, like. An item?” Miles leans across the empty space between them, Rihanna’s perfume still lingering in the air. He’s been trying to keep his cool, but it feels like he knows more about her music than she does herself. SOS was a revelation , he caught himself saying more than once.
Even with her between them, he’s found himself watching Miles out of the corner of his eye; the easy way he greets people, effortlessly chatting to anyone. Fluttering his eyelashes and sloshing his glass of wine about but never spilling a drop of it.
He hates it, but it makes him feel distinctly unspecial.
“An item?” Lewis can feel his eyebrow arch. “What magazine do you work for?”
“Caught me.” Miles’s hands fly up into the air. “I moonlight for TMZ.”
With his glasses and bow tie, striped blazer hanging over his broad shoulders, Miles could pass for a writer. Or a professor at one of the fancy universities that would never have accepted him with his GCSE grades.
He’s not sure about TMZ, though.
“Sure you do.” Lewis laughs. “We’re not - though. But I’m flattered you think I could pull her.”
“Pull ? ” Miles asks.
“You don’t say that over here?”
Miles shakes his head. Every day Lewis learns something new about this country.
“It’s just - I dunno. You pull a bird. Like, you know - you hook up with them?”
“What has that got to do with birds?”
He has Jenson to thank for this. He can almost hear him now, laughing at this conversation.
“Birds. Girls. Girls are birds.”
“So, Rihanna’s a bird?”
The question takes Lewis so much by surprise that he snorts. He looks around quickly, checking to see if eyes are on him. He wants these people to think he’s cool, suave. That doesn’t come with a laugh that Nico has often described as the nerdiest laugh I know.
He’s unable to stop giggling, though, at the thought of someone calling Rihanna a bird. Miles’ eyes light up, his smile is infectious.
“Sure, Rihanna’s a fit bird.” He grins. “Tell her that when she comes back.”
“Fit.”
Again, Miles is stumped. Jesus, this country.
“Hot.”
“Got it.” Miles nods. He pulls at his bow tie with both hands, straightening it, before pushing his glasses up his nose. “Rihanna’s a fit bird, guvna .”
Lewis winces, Miles’ English accent painful at best. He’s used to people making fun of it by now, but it doesn’t make their attempts any less grating.
“So - if not Rihanna, do you have a fit bird?”
He almost chokes on his drink at that. This is not how strangers normally behave around him anymore.
“You’re very friendly, aren’t you?” He wipes his lips with a napkin on the table - has to stop himself from just using the back of his hand.
“Ah - that’s just Americans for you.” Miles says, a knowing look on his face as if he’s telling him a secret. “Are you single, then?”
The last messages he received from Nicole couldn’t be read out pre-watershed. Several four letter expletives, one of which she credits him introducing into her vocabulary. So, yeah. He guesses he is.
But he’s not sure why Miles wants to know that, and his eyes narrow slightly.
“Why do you want to know?”
His tone is more brittle than he’d like it to be, a natural defence mechanism, but Miles doesn’t flinch.
“Wondering if I need to be your wingman tonight - I’ve been told I make an excellent one.”
God, long gone are the days he and his friends talked about wingmans. It makes him feel nostalgic, almost, remembering him and Nico in clubs, too scared to talk to girls by themselves.
But he doesn’t want to think about Nico tonight.
“I’m alright thanks, mate. I’ve got game.”
That’s what girls tell him, anyway. Some of them.
Miles leans closer, so close they’re almost touching.
“Ok, here’s a free tip, though.” He whispers, eyes lit up and mischievous. “Rihanna does not want to sit here and tell you what Drake is like.”
“You’ve been eavesdropping on us?”
“Just helping out a friend.” Miles lifts his hands up in a surrender again.
I’m not sure we’re friends yet, Lewis has to bite his lip from saying. He takes a sip from his drink instead.
–
Rihanna sits back down eventually, her big floral dress obscuring Miles from his view. His heart sinks slightly - although he’s not sure why. He turns to talk to her, a question about Calvin Harris on the tip of his tongue, but Miles leans over, his face dangerously close to a lit candle, to continue talking.
“I was born in London, you know.”
Lewis shoots Rihanna a look that says sorry. Hopefully the apology also covers the scrap of her dress that he pocketed when it fell into his lap. A souvenir from his time in New York, is how he justified it to himself.
At least Miles isn’t asking about his dating life, anymore. Or lack of.
Maybe she’s glad for the reprieve as she starts talking to someone else instead. A designer Lewis has had his eye on for a few years now. He makes a mental note to go after them later - he’s got an in, now. He’s sitting next to Rihanna.
“Oh? Where abouts?”
“Cockfosters – can you believe there’s a place called that?” Miles laughs, a full-bodied laugh. He doesn’t look around like Lewis did to check if anyone heard it. “Is that near you?”
“I – oh,” Lewis isn’t really sure where he lives, anymore. He had to get a new passport last week because of all the stamps in it. “No, I’m. I’m from a place called Stevenage. Hertfordshire.”
“Sounds nice.” Miles runs his tongue over the word Hertfordshire.
He doesn’t really want to be talking about Stevenage, right now. Not when he should be talking to Rihanna about the Caribbean.
Doesn’t want to be thinking about it, either. Ever.
“You’re a fencer?” He asks, eager to move the conversation away from a town once described by the Guardian as the most soulless town in Britain.
“Mhm, off to the Olympics next year.”
“So you poke people with sticks?” He’s trying to be funny - even Nico would probably laugh at that, but he sees a flash of annoyance in Miles’ eyes. “Sorry, I -”
“And you drive around in a circle.” Quick as a flash, Miles is back to being happy again. Lewis feels instantly relieved.
“At two hundred miles an hour.” He hits back.
“I could do that with my eyes closed.”
“No way you could.”
Lewis can feel himself grinning; a large, stupid grin. Joking with Miles is easy.
“Put me in the car and we’ll see -”
“There’s not a chance in hell you’d even fit in my car.” Lewis laughs at the thought of Miles scrunched up in his seat, legs tucked up to his chest.
“No,” Miles puts on a look of fake sincerity. “You are tiny.”
“Excuse me - I’m an average height actually. ”
“Averagely tiny, maybe.” Miles reaches across the space between them. Rihanna’s left again, this time he barely even noticed. His hand comes out to pinch Lewis’ cheek. “I could put you in my pocket.”
For the second time that night, Lewis thinks that he should object. But, also for the second time, he doesn’t. When Miles’ takes his hand away it feels like his cheek is burning.
“Right - uh, well.” He stutters, taken aback by how touchy Miles is. “I’d make a hole in it.”
Miles blinks, as if he too is thinking what?
“How much have you had to drink, man?” He laughs.
Lewis looks at his glass, refilled with champagne. Not many, he thought, but then the waiters keep walking around, topping everyone up before they’re even asked. His tongue feels sticky and sweet in his mouth, confidence bubbling in his chest.
—
He ends up being passed around by designers like a ragdoll, all promising collaborations, fits for race weekends, cover shoots and campaigns. He doesn’t mind it; not one bit. These are his people, he’s found them - maybe a little late in life, but he’s done it.
But, still, he can’t escape Miles. With his bleach blonde hair and a foot taller than most of the other guests, he stands out like a lighthouse. Everytime he talks to someone new he finds himself missing his company, how easily he smiled and openly he joked. Finds himself distracted by the sound of the other man’s laugh, and almost wishes that were him making him laugh like that.
He feels like he’s back at primary school again, finally making a new friend and wanting nothing more than to stick to them like glue. Through every conversation he finds himself making mental notes, putting pins in bits of conversations he wants to tell Miles, jokes he wants to make to him.
But, before he gets a chance to talk to him again, the clock strikes midnight.
People start slowly filing out of the venue. He looks around for Miles but can’t see him anymore through the sea of people, large dresses and even larger hair obscuring his view. If only he were a couple more inches taller - pocket sized, Miles called him.
It’s no big deal, he tells himself. Everyone’s on instagram these days - he can send him a DM. Tell him about the new Versace collection he’d look good in - unless that’s weird, maybe.
He’ll think about it. Sober up tomorrow and send a message that’s appropriate.
He’s getting his coat when he feels a tap on his shoulder. Turning around, he’s met with Miles’ chest.
Lewis tries not to smile too big at the sight of him.
“Where are you off to now?” He asks, as Lewis’ gaze travels upwards to meet his smile. There’s a thick fur coat under his arm.
“After party.” He tells him. That’s another invitation he couldn’t believe. Normally he wouldn’t brag about it but - hey, this is the Met. “Beyonce’s.” He says, smartly.
Miles lets out a soft whistle, his lips forming a perfect pout.
“Lucky boy.”
His tone suggests he isn’t off to the same and Lewis feels a sinking feeling again. Maybe he could swing him an invite – but he dashes that thought, quickly. He hasn’t spoken to Beyonce since she came to the race in 2008. He’s not sure she knew who he was, back then. Had Pharell to thank for that one.
“And you?”
“Different party.” Miles shrugs. “Guess this is it, then.” He smiles.
They both stand there in an awkward silence for a few beats, hands in their pockets, smiling at each other. He’s not sure what’s wrong with him; he’s asked dozens of people for their details tonight, thought nothing about sharing business ideas or asking for meetings.
But this feels different, like there’s something lodged in his throat.
“Right, yeah. Have fun tonight.”
“You too, man.” Miles clasps his hand, pulls him in for a hug. The scent of his cologne hits Lewis – he’d like to ask him what he’s wearing but he’s not sure if that’s a weird thing to do, yet. Jenson would tell him it’s weird, probably.
He’s not a hugger, but when Miles envelopes him, a strong arm around his back and another pressed to his chest, he doesn’t mind it. When they separate, the cool breeze from outside hits him and sends goosebumps down his skin. He can already hear the photographers outside.
“Will I see you again?” He hears himself asking and regrets it immediately. What is he – in a teenage rom com?
“Of course – what’s your number?” Miles’ face lights up and he slides his phone out of his pocket. Lewis tenses; he doesn’t like giving his number out to people, and Miles senses this. “Too famous for that?” He smiles. “Not a problem, take mine.”
“Nice screensaver.” He nods, when the picture of Muhammad Ali comes up, float like a butterfly sting like a bee written over it in Helvetica.
“Bit cheesy.” Lewis admits, a hand on his neck. Daniel often calls him an Auntie for things like this.
“Snap.” Miles turns his phone over, and it’s like a mirror image of Lewis’ own home screen.
“What are the chances.”
“Higher than you think.” Miles shrugs. Lewis looks at him for clarification. “Both first of our kind, babe.”
He leaves Lewis with a wink.
--
He keeps the windows down in the taxi, feels the air hit his face and the noise of sirens and car horns attempt to drown out his thoughts.
Babe.
Miles’ parting words have been ringing around his ears since he left. He can’t work out if Miles is really just that friendly, that free with himself, or whether - and this thought threatens to send him into a cold sweat - he thought they were flirting.
He spends most of the taxi ride running over all their interactions, looking for anything he did or said that could be misconstrued, but he can’t find anything. Hell, he was far flirtier with Rihanna and she didn’t call him babe once.
He’s not sure what he would have done if she did. Melt into a puddle, maybe.
But it’s fine. He’ll message him in a couple of days, make it clear that they’re just friends.
The party, once he changes into a new fit and shows his invitation to three different security guards, is absolute chaos. He thought he was doing well for himself but this is a whole other thing entirely. Champagne towers, white powder under noses, burlesque dancers in various stages of undress - it’s hard to keep his eyes off the last one.
He throws himself into the party; happily accepting coupes of champagne and cocktails with mist coming off them – dry ice , someone tells him in an American accent. In the toilets a woman calls him beautiful, clasps his face between her hands and kisses him on the cheek. Lipstick sticky and pupils large. He giggles. God, he loves New York.
He sends Toto a picture of the skyline, careful to avoid the smoke from the cigarette he cheekily snuck between his lips. Briefly contemplates sending it to Nico, too, but their texts are few and far between now, becoming more and more professional by the day.
The Empire State building is his favourite. Sometimes, as a kid, he imagined living in it. Getting hot dogs by the side of the street – the sidewalk, dodging air vents and riding the Subway.
He’s thinking of this new life in New York when he hears a familiar laugh. He looks around, greeted by a pair of broad shoulders.
“Miles?” He asks, voice squeaky, before he can stop himself. He can hear the delight in his voice. It should be embarrassing, but luckily he’s fairly drunk by now.
Miles looks around, a big beaming smile on his face.
“Lewis!” He shouts.
In a flash he’s picking Lewis up and twirling him around. The night spins around them, and when he finally puts him down Lewis’ head is spinning.
“Sorry.” He giggles, breathlessly, to a celebrity they knocked into.
“I’ve been looking for you for hours.” Miles grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him. Lewis feels his head loll forwards and backwards, his cheeks grow warm. For hours - Miles must be exaggerating because, surely, he’s not that special.
“How did you get in?”
“Told them I knew you.” He bumps Lewis with his elbow. “Nah, just asked for an invite.”
Asked. He can’t imagine asking Beyonce for anything. Miles has far more guts than him.
He introduces him to his crowd - this is my friend, Lewis, he says, and Lewis beams because, yes, he thinks they are friends now. Hearing Miles say that feels nice. He’s made a friend. He can’t imagine Miles and Nico getting on, though. Miles is far too much like an excitable puppy - he’d knock over Keke’s expensive sculptures if given half the chance.
The more Miles drinks the more tactile he becomes, until eventually his arm doesn’t leave Lewis’ shoulders. Lewis doesn’t mind it; finds himself leaning into his embrace, letting Miles prop him up. He’s warm and strong and smells good, and with Miles there he doesn’t have to worry about whether or not he’s being charming enough, entertaining enough. He doesn’t talk much to anyone else, tongue heavy from alcohol and his thoughts warm and fuzzy, but watches Miles instead until his cheeks hurt from smiling.
Eventually they find themselves in a corner by themselves, back turned to everyone else. A small voice in the back of his head tells him to go out and explore - network, his dad would say, but he’s having too much fun here.
“I can’t believe you’ve never tried New York pizza!” Miles exclaims, when Lewis ends up telling him about his fantasies of living in New York. The Big Apple, he calls it at first, and feels a surge of pride when Miles snorts with laughter.
“I’m a high performance athlete, I’m not supposed to eat pizza!”
“Alright, alright, we gotta fix that.” Miles drawls, his accent even stronger when he’s drunk. Lewis is almost tempted to copy it. “My apartment’s just around the corner - why don’t we pick some up and go have it at mine?”
The sun is just beginning to make its entrance in the sky. He really should go back to the hotel, he promised Toto he’d be good and he really doesn’t enjoy letting him down - not when Nico jumps on every opportunity to poke the wound further. But then Miles squeezes his shoulder, and - when will he get this chance again?
New York pizza, in a New York apartment.
His teenage self, crouched in front of the TV watching The Taxi Driver for the fifth time, would be screaming at him to say yes.
“Why not.” He giggles. Toto can wait.
___
To his delight, his apartment is in a brownstone. One with a fire-escape up the side, steps up to the front door. He imagines Miles perched on the steps, a book in his hands and plant pots by his feet like in the movies.
Miles lets him in, throws his keys into a bowl with a clang. Their fingers are greasy from the pizza on their way home, the flat quiet and clean.
They’re five stories up, just about high enough to see the trees in central park peeking through the mass of buildings. He gets lost looking outside the window, at all the life and light even at 5am.
“Lewis.” Miles says, and he tears his gaze away from the people down below, filing into a yellow taxi.
He’s looking at him intently, so different to how Miles has looked the entire night that he wants to ask him what’s wrong.
The question is on the tip of his tongue as Miles leans in, his features losing focus until his lips are on Lewis’. A firm hand comes to his waist, another grazes the baby hairs at the nape of his neck, his tongue runs over his bottom lip.
And Lewis - Lewis is frozen.
He pulls away, slowly, leaving Lewis to wipe at his lips with the back of a shaky hand.
“Sorry - I, was it bad?” Miles asks. He’s right there but it sounds like he’s far away, voice drowned out by the sirens down on the street.
“Uh - no.” He hears himself say. It wasn’t - for a first kiss it was actually quite good. One of the better kisses he’s had. Miles’ lips are soft and pillowy, he felt his soft eyelashes flutter against his skin. But he’s not - “But I’m not - not gay.”
He almost feels bad about it, worried about letting Miles down. He should have read the signs better, not led him on - god, this is all his fault.
One of Miles’ eyebrows arch in disbelief.
“Seriously?” He asks. “Not even a little bit?”
The question throws Lewis - “Can you even be a little bit?” He quickly asks back. The inflection in his voice reminds him of Chandler from Friends and, honestly, he’d laugh if he weren’t so confused right now.
The look he gets from Miles in return is downright patronising.
“There’s an entire alphabet out there, man.” He says, as if it’s obvious. Well, no one’s taught him this. “You’re telling me you’re 100% straight?”
“I mean, I’ve never thought about it.” Really, he hasn’t. Because there’s nothing to think about. “But. Yes.”
A siren blares outside and he’s distracted, for a second, by the blue lights that flash around Miles’ apartment. When he turns back to the other man, his expression is indecipherable.
“If you’ve never thought about it, how can you be sure?”
“Because I – I,” Lewis scrambles around for a reason. One must be there somewhere. “I get off on girls.” Ends up tumbling out of his mouth. He winces, not sure it could get more embarrassing than that.
He’s expecting Miles to snort, to ask him what kind of porn he watches. That’s what Jenson would do, what Nico would do.
Instead, his body shifts. His eyes grow darker, flit down to the part of Lewis’ chest that’s exposed.
“You get off on girls?” He asks, voice lower, slower. As if he’s choosing his words purposefully. He moves closer to Lewis. “So if I was a girl… you’d be into me?”
Lewis swallows. He can hear his own breathing, heavy and shaky.
Miles moves even closer, puts his hand back on Lewis’ waist. His thumb grazes his hip bone.
“You’d let me do this?” He’s almost whispering, now.
He lowers his head, so close now that their foreheads are almost touching.
“You’d let me kiss you?”
Lewis can’t remember the last time he spoke, can’t seem to get his tongue to move. His heart is hammering.
He’s vaguely aware that Miles is bending down – in a way he never has to do even with girls. It doesn’t feel embarrassing or emasculating. No, it feels nice.
He shuts his eyes and lets Miles cup his jaw, meets his lips and opens his mouth to let his tongue in.
His heart is still racing as Miles props him up on the window sill, presses kisses down his neck and undoes his buttons one by one.
—
2021
He lifts his fingers to his temples, Angela’s words ringing in his ears as she passed him the painkillers on one condition; that he not drink alcohol on them. One or two glasses couldn’t hurt, he thought, but it’s so loud and so busy and tonight is different - so much riding on his shoulders this time, an entire table of people here because of him.
He plasters a smile onto his face. Ignores the fact that every time the corners of his lips turn up his temples hurt.
“Bruv, you should not be here.” Miles says, loudly. Bruv. Sometimes he regrets introducing Miles to certain words. He turns to him, ready to give him a piece of his mind, only to see him addressing the entire table. “This guy had a fucking car land on his head yesterday -”
“It did not land on my head -” He stops, aware of how petulant he sounds, and that no one around the table wants to hear about a halo. He lowers his voice, turns to Miles. “Besides, think they’d give you this table without me?”
“ Meow .” Miles hisses. “Someone’s catty today.”
“I am not catty - and you know how I feel about stereotypes like that.”
Miles rolls his eyes, his glasses giving them a blue tinge.
“Jesus, so grumpy. ”
Lewis feels his jaw clench instinctively. He’s been doing that far too often this season, so he rubs it gently with his palm the way Angela told him to do.
Miles’ eyes soften.
“Sorry.” He says, and it sounds like he means it. “I’m just.” He pauses, takes a deep breath. “I’m worried about what this sport is doing to you.”
“You don’t need to worry.” Lewis picks up his glass, toasts to Kehlani when she meets his eye in a bid to pretend that everything’s fine. “I’m dealing with it.”
Miles leans in, so close that he worries. He tries to remind himself that he wouldn’t worry if it were anyone else - that no one on the outside will suspect a thing.
“You see,” He whispers. “That’s not how relationships work. I can’t just sit by and watch them do this to you.”
Christ, he can feel his bottom lip start to wobble. His neck still hurts from the crash, the weight of the car still sits on his shoulders. He knows he has his dad, Angela, Toto - but Miles . He’s never had anyone like Miles before. Miles would go to war for him, if given the chance.
“So what are you gonna do about it?” He asks, because he genuinely doesn’t know. But he’d love to. Miles’ finger grazes his thigh underneath the table, and it takes everything in his will power not to look down.
Miles smiles, ruefully. There’s another world out there, another universe, where they could go to war for each other. That’s not this one, not yet.
“Taking them down from the inside.” He smiles. It’s a throwback to their argument a few months ago, one that left Lewis sniffing and blinking back tears.
He swallows, desperate not to ruin the concealer under his eyes tonight.
“To corporate espionage.” He clinks his glass against Miles’, puts it down and reaches for the water instead. He shouldn’t drink during the season, anyway. Especially not a season like this.
“So, six years since we first met.” Miles says, as if he hasn’t already been telling everyone at their table the story of them sitting at the same table, Rihanna between them, and overhearing Lewis’ awful attempts to flirt with her. “They say if you’re still friends after 7 years, you’ll be friends for life.”
“Mhm, and what do they say if you’re more than friends?”
“Well, you’re gonna have to stop crashing if we wanna make it to 7 years.” Miles puts his hands up when he sees Lewis’ face. “Sorry - cheap shot.” He mutters. “I think we’ll make it way past 7 years.”
“Think we’ll grow old together?”
“Absolutely. We’ll have two kids, dress them both in Chanel -”
“Do Chanel even do baby clothes?” Lewis snorts. The daily mail would crucify him for that.
“But I’m afraid neither of them are going into racing - it’s stressful enough watching you do it.”
He thinks about Mick, the pressure on his shoulders, the weight of his surname. Fine by him .
“Where do we live?”
“Not Monaco - sorry. Way too boring for us. We live here, New York.”
“Ah, how convenient for you.” Lewis smiles. He’s got him a bigger place in the years that followed, one that looks over the Hudson, but Miles has still clung onto his old apartment, the one they first kissed in. They’ll need to film it when they do a movie about you, he says.
“You love New York.” Miles grumbles.
“I love anywhere you are.” He tells him. It’s true. When his racing is finally over he knows he’ll follow him anywhere. He’d even move back to Stevenage if he wanted. But, god, he hopes it doesn't come to that.