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If he were being kind to himself, he would say he only does it out of the goodness of his own heart; a need to look out for him, to make sure he’s ok. It’s got nothing to do with how tight his racing suit is - though he’s beginning to think the design team do that on purpose, nothing to do with the way the sun catches his teeth when he smiles or his waist moves when he walks.
Sure, Lewis cuts an impressive figure when he strolls around the paddock or weaves through crowds on his scooter, but Bono knows there’s a lot more to him. He’s been allowed - been privileged - to see some of it.
Now with Angela gone -
He’s still not sure if he’s supposed to say her name. The absence of her presence is like a missing limb, like breaking his arm on the first day of year 7 and wearing a cast for the next few months. He can only imagine what it feels like to Lewis. Like the arm is completely lobbed off, maybe.
So he watches him even more carefully, now. An eye on him the moment they meet up in Jeddah, the ghosts of the past two years still haunting all of them. “I’m fine,” He says, shrugging off the arm Toto tries to put his arm around his shoulders, but his voice doesn’t sound as certain as George’s does next to him.
Jeddah isn’t kind to them - or at least, it isn’t kind to him . To Lewis.
It’s hard not to notice the fracture between the two different sides of the garage, like a chasm opened up since the season began. A crack in the ground after an earthquake.
The earthquake being - well. He’s still not sure he’s supposed to talk about that, either. He waits for Lewis to come to him with it, like he normally does. A listening ear, a confidant as Toto once put it. That always sounded a little too grandiose for the two of them, though.
But he doesn’t. He hears the comments to the media, then watches Lewis walk into the garage in Jeddah like nothing has happened. Maybe it hasn’t, maybe he’s making a big deal out of things. He always has been a worrier.
“We good?” He asks after qualifying, when his nerves get the better of him and Lewis’ frown looks so deep it might cause him a headache. He wishes Angela were there to rub it away for him. All he has are words.
Lewis looks at him, frowns deeper. Then smiles. “Course. We’re always good.”
Just like that the tension in his shoulders melts away. It feels almost as good as the massage Angela gave him once. Angela. Thinking about her hurts.
The race should be better, can’t go much worse than qualifying, really. Lewis makes up a few places, runs a good, consistent race. He’s proud - always proud, but it’s different now. A car he doesn’t feel, an entire industry that is delighted to see him fail.
And he’s not even failing. “By anyone else’s standards, that would have been a great race.” He tries to tell him, Lewis’ face tight with disappointment. Contempt for everything barely kept at bay.
“Hmm,” He hums. He smells of sweat and deodorant and the lavender oil Angela left him for his joints. The new physio hangs around behind them, still not sure of his place. If Bono were kinder, he’d help him more. He is kind - but it feels like he doesn’t have any kindness to spare at the moment. It’s all going to Lewis. “I’m not held to anyone else’s standards, though.”
That’s the price of success, Toto would say, probably. But Lewis doesn’t need to hear that right now.
He arrives in Australia with the sun kissing his skin and jewellery shining. Immediately, Bono feels more positive. Australia has been good to him in the past, relatively. He still remembers seeing him on the podium after his first ever race, the rookie taking everyone by storm with a head shaved by Ron Dennis and shoulders strong enough to carry the weight of expectation.
A podium feels a little too optimistic at first, but as the weekend wears on he dares to dream. Lewis looks lighter, happier. Anthony hangs around the garage and pats Bono on the back like he’s a long lost son. “Thank you,” He once slurred, after a few too many glasses of champagne. “For looking after my son.”
The dregs of the champagne Lewis brings back to the garage are passed around, but he declines. “You should have some.” Lewis whispers, their heads ducked together over the data.
But he’s fine, really, because he tastes it on Lewis’ skin later. Under-armour ripped off and left in a puddle by the door, his shirt undone button by button. Lewis used to rip them off, before HR started asking why he needed yet another shirt.
They haven’t done this since Brazil last year, an achingly long time - especially by their standards. Even then it didn’t feel quite right. Good but not great, both of them still thinking about what could have been.
They’re spoiled, he supposes. Too used to winning. 82 for them together, even more for Lewis alone. Too safe in the assumption that the next race will be their race, next year will be their year. He can’t remember the last time they thought that. Back in Jeddah, maybe, when Lewis was so drained from the race he could barely keep his head up (if only they’d known).
“You’re thinking too loud.” Lewis mumbles into his skin, lips grazing the goosebumps that he thinks he shouldn’t get in Australia.
He feels himself blush. “You’re one to talk.”
Lewis laughs, his breath is warm and sickly sweet from champagne. I love it when you laugh , he wants to say.
“Yeah, well.” His hand, down at Bono’s belt buckle, stills. The muscles holding him up relax as he rests his head on his chest. The hairs of his beard tickle his skin. “Lots to think about.”
Instinctively Bono brings a hand to his head, winds his fingers in his braids. Lewis loves it when he plays with his hair - but only him. Only him and Angela are allowed to touch it.
“I’m proud of you.” He hopes, with how close they are, that the words might finally sink in this time. He feels Lewis stiffen on top of him, his body’s natural response to compliments. “A P2 after everything that’s happened the past few weeks, that’s nothing to be sniffed at.”
As if to make a point, Lewis does sniff. But then he feels him smile, cheeks rising up and eyes crinkling.
“Ange messaged.” He says, quietly, as a finger traces a circle around Bono’s belly button. Selfishly, he wants him to go further, go lower. But right now he’s just happy he has him here. Hair wet and skin sticky, black ink dancing over his body. “Said almost exactly the same thing. Do you two have a secret group chat I don’t know about?”
His heart would start to race right now, had Angela not taught him how to avoid that. Deep breathes in, think about something else. A polar bear in the north pole. The penguins from Lewis’ Antarctica trip. The big walrus lazing on the ground that Lewis had sent through with the caption - me, lol.
They do, but Lewis doesn’t need to know that. Angela told him exactly what to say.
“You know I can barely keep up with one group chat.” He’s not lying. He has his siblings’ one on mute, most of the time.
Lewis takes a breath in, bites his lip. He can tell he’s about to say something serious, something he’s working very hard on how to articulate. Now his heart starts to race, and he can’t stop it. He’s been trying to ignore all the retirement talk, all the rumours about red racing suits and jokes about an Aston Martin swap but -
Maybe this is it.
“I think I’m too tired for this tonight.” Lewis says. His voice is small, defeated, and Bono wants to laugh out loud because - really? All this worry over sex?
He swallows, though. Swallows the urge to laugh when Lewis is on his chest, exposed and bare. Swallows down any disappointment - really, does he think he’s entitled to this, to Lewis? “I’ll see you in Baku.” He says, because it’s about time someone started thinking that the next race will be theirs. And if Lewis won’t, maybe he will.
“You could come back with me, for a bit, if you wanted?”
Bono stills; he’s never been asked this before.
In his silence, Lewis keeps talking.
“The place is quite empty now Ange is gone. Or we could go see her in New Zealand for a bit - though I’m not sure if that’s too soon, she probably needs space. Time with the kids. But, yeah. If you want you can come to Monaco, or LA maybe. Or we could go Colorado- I don’t know, is there anywhere -”
“I’ll come.” He interrupts him. Puts a hand on his wrist where the pulse is like he’s seen Angela do in the past, presses two digits down in between the thin bones that run into his palm. Centres him, she said.
“Hmm,” Lewis hums, content. Bono wouldn’t be surprised if he curled up, like a cat. He winds a finger around one of his braids, imagines them in the mountains. Colorado seems right for them. Not LA, too busy, too LA. Then Baku.