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"I should answer, shouldn't I?" He asks, showing Fernando the call, his father's number flashing on the screen. His father is trying to communicate harder than he has ever experienced before, and he has in fact broken both of his wrists earlier in the year.
"Lance, I am not going to say that you shouldn't talk to your father."
"I know." He huffs, still very tired, not ready to confront the world. But, he also knows that he will never be, he will never be ready if he doesn't at least try. "I am scared."
"Mi amor, it's gonna be fine. Lawrence loves you more than anything - sure he will be shocked… but I doubt he will disown you."
He raises an eyebrow, "You don't know that."
"I don't." He gives, shrugging his shoulders, almost unbothered by the situation after the power nap they took. Lance wishes he had the power to forget it, to act normal, perhaps it will come with age. "We can't stay here forever."
He pouts, looks at him with his big eyes, bats his eyelashes innocently, "Why not? We have everything here - and you can have me whenever."
"Cheeky." Fernando swats away at the hair that fell in his eyes, ignores the pressing touches Lance gives him and opts for touching his face lightly, endlessly fond of him. The older quickly gets up from bed, depositing a little kiss on his forehead, "Talk with your dad, I am going to find something to eat."
He complains about his ignored preposition, getting a chuckle in response but nothing more as he sees his boyfriend disappear towards the hallway.
Spread on the bed he wonders, thinking about the best course of action while trying to find the courage to answer the call. Coaches himself, hypes himself up, basically trying to imitate what Henry does on their exercises.
Henry, that's another person he should talk to soon.
He could recall Fernando's praises too as a much needed push to answer, but that would end up getting him another problem altogether - and thank you very much, but he would rather die than talk with his father while sporting a semi hard.
He sighs for what feels like the hundredth time, he needs a fucking exorcism. It's not the time nor place to think about sex (or making love - as Fernando would say indignantly).
Finally, sitting up, swallowing his doubts, he answers and is met with a, "Lance"
"Yeah."
"Lance, I have been trying to talk to you for hours - I was about to report you missing if you didn't answer. What were you even thinking ignoring -"
"Dad." He says, searching to stop the rambles, trying to have the serious conversation they need, he is so tired of pretending.
It instantly becomes awkward, the other line goes awfully quiet. As if he is organizing his thoughts before speaking again, before interrogating him about the type of relationship he maintains with his much older teammate.
"Lance… how long has this been going on?"
Well, it certainly goes to the point instantly. He is honest, he has found it is the best way to approach his father when a mistake occurs, "Six months officially, way more casually."
"Okay." There's a hum, "I can work with that."
"What?"
"I mean, it's not that serious, so we can move on easily from this."
He is perplexed at that, a slow simmering anger appearing. What about six months feels not serious enough to him? What about them taking photos commemorating a milestone and having dates isn't serious?
"Dad - I don't want to move on." He feels silly, like a little child begging his father to let him continue playing, to let him borrow the toy for a bit more. The metaphor makes him sick to the stomach. He hates how much power his father still has on him, how his opinions matter that much.
"Lance, don't be stupid. Fernando is not the best you can get." He admonishes, still going in his tirade, "I have hundreds of other people I could present to you. I can even find men now that I know."
"What - what the hell, now that you know?"
"Don't care about you being gay -" He says at first, and Lance almost buys it, almost becomes happy at the idea of his father supporting him but then, "Don't get me wrong, I would have wanted you to be normal, but I guess we can -"
His heart drops slightly, "Wait a second… Be normal?"
"Yeah, you know, like your sister. Marrying, perhaps even having children."
"I am normal - I can marry and have children too." He says with certainty, with force, shining light on what he truly feels, "And I love Nando. I am not leaving him."
"Lance. You are a Formula 1 driver, you can't be with a man, and especially you can't be with your teammate - or a former gigolo either."
"Former… what the hell are you talking about? What the fuck is your problem?"
"You can't be with Fernando Alonso." He says simply, not caring about his tone of voice, like Lance will agree with that statement in spite of his anger. He obviously doesn’t.
"Well, you have arrived late to the party, because I am already with him. I have been for months, as I said." He is losing his patience, he wants to scream till his throat becomes raw, "I am 25, I am not breaking up with Fernando because you say so."
"Lance-"
"No! What even is this fucking call? What are you trying to do here? I don't get how you can call and try to manage my life without asking - without caring about how I feel." He feels like sobbing, like a teenager begging to be listened to, "You - you should ask how I am, you should be supporting me. Do you even realize what's going on here?"
"Well Lance," Lawrence laughs, chuckles spitefully, "It is your own fault, isn't it?"
He breathes wetly, the tears fighting to get out. He won't give him the pleasure to hear him break. He doesn't know what he was expecting, it's unbelievable, why the hell was he expecting anything else than this?
"Yeah -" He wipes his tears, "It is my fault. You are right."
And then he hangs up, he really doesn't need this right now. He doesn't need to talk in circles, doesn't need his relationship to be talked about as if it were a bad investment and not the thing that has made him happier than ever. He sobs, clutching at his heart, it hurts, it hurts so fucking much.
He needs his sister, needs the comfort of his big sister, the only person that knows him better than Fernando or Lance even knows himself.
He calls her before he can walk back the decision, he needs her, needs her soft words, her endless reassurance. She answers in seconds, like she was expecting him to call. She knows him.
"Chloe…"
"Lance, how - how are you?" She seems unsure on how to talk to him, he despises it. He wishes this was way easier, "I - I saw the picture."
"I am sorry." He can't help it, can't help but apologize to her, for not telling her sooner, for dropping this without any type of warning. He can only imagine how many people must have reached out to her to ask, to question shit that shouldn't matter to them.
In that area Fernando and him are complete opposites, while Fer bathes in the spotlight, enjoys being the center of attention, he hates it. Hates to be a public figure, to be constantly watched and followed around. He really doesn’t understand how Lewis, Max or even Charles deal with it all, how they seem so chill when the spotlight is so giant on top of them.
He will never get it, will never understand why he is so important when he is just Lance, Lance Stroll. Why his sayings are so fucking constructed to not be controversial, why his image should just be a certain way. Why him loving another man is such an issue.
"Lance? Why are you sorry, idiot?" She asks, in the tone he knows so well, the one she used when he fell the first time riding a bike while she was instructing him, the soft sounds of what could be a warm hand touching his shoulder, comforting him. It feels like childhood, like love, it makes him remember times when she used to fix his knees after falling in the playground.
He needs her so bad, needs to have her slim arms around him, a hug that could repair everything. He can't have it yet, but hearing her should suffice until the next race week she comes to see him.
"I am bothering you with - with nonsense."
"Lance, it's not nonsense." She is so wise, so comforting, "You are out of the closet - your relationship is out to everyone to see and judge. I think it is pretty important for us to talk."
"And, what do you think about it?" He asks, afraid of the reaction she could still have, afraid that she will recommend cutting it short too.
"About what, Lancey?"
"About - about the photo, my relationship with Fernando."
She doesn't answer for a few seconds, like debating with herself. Hears her murmuring indications to her husband in the background before asking, "Does he make you happy?"
"Yeah, like, like never before."
"Then, it’s okay by me. I am happy for you." She has always known what to say, has always had more self-control than Lance, has been able to school her facial expressions better than him too. He doesn't know what would have been of him without her at his side in his younger days. "Can't lie… the age difference thing is strange, but you deserve it - You deserve happiness, your own Scotty, Lance."
He wants to wail at that assessment, "Do - do you think he could be my Scotty?"
His sister chuckles, "Isn't he already? You seem serious about him. And really the picture was gorgeous, couple goals of whatever."
It doesn't stop, she keeps on going, "You have always chosen right, Lancey - you introduced me to my husband, so Fernando must be lovely for you to love him."
"Chloe," He doesn't know what to say, how to respond to the amount of love she has for him, he still chuckles a bit, "You don't even seem surprised about me liking men-"
"Lance, you are my baby brother. I know everything about you - and really, you always were fascinated by racing drivers that looked handsome." She giggles, “I had to suffer you going on and on about how good Mika or Kimi were - you for sure weren’t fooling me, dumbass.”
Before he can answer, defend himself against the light mocking, he hears his brother in law asking if it is him on the phone, and before Chole even answers, Scotty grabs it, "Lance, dude, tell Fernando that he should gift me a helmet. We are practically family now!"
He is really surprised, but he manages to find his footing quickly, laughing, "Y-yeah… okay, dude, will tell him."
"Thank you!" He almost screams down the phone, “You are the best!”
"Sorry about him, you know how he is… He has been waiting to talk since he saw the story, something about having a world champion in the family or whatever,” He can almost hear her rolling her eyes, “I told him to not be annoying about it, but Scotty is-”
“Chloe, it's fine, really” He says, he genuinely believes that it makes him feel better. To be accepted without questioning, someone finally being happy about them. Scotty being happy about maybe getting to know his partner can't even be defined with words, there's no ulterior motives, no judgment. Perhaps he should beg Scotty and Chole to adopt him if his father doesn’t get his shit together soon.
That's, that's certainly an insane thought.
“Lance, we are here for you, for whatever you might need.” She adds, “And we would love to meet Fernando.”
“Yeah, I think - we would like that too.”
***
"How did it go?" Fernando asks once he hears him enter the kitchen, momentarily forgetting the breakfast he is cooking to look at him.
It almost makes him gasp, the care, the soft voice, how little his eyes get from the smile that takes over all his charming face.
He makes a noncommittal noise in response, enough answer for Fernando, who knows him, who knows that he will answer fully after some minutes, after getting over the tangled knots in his head. So he turns around goes back to his cooking.
Lance feels his body relax, decompress against the kitchen wall, letting the cold tile calm his fried nerves. It's too much. Everything is bigger than he thought, the obstacles appear in monumental heights, pyramids of problems stacked on top of each other.
But at least the pressure is trying to dissolve from his lungs, allowing him to breathe far more easily. He has gotten the heaviest burden off of him, talking to his family.
He feels more prepared, ready to confront the world and devour it at his boyfriend’s side.
Allows himself to relax, to bask in the shimmering light of his house, their home.
It's some minutes like that, hearing the soft hums his other half makes while concentrating, a mumble of his favorite song at the moment, most likely a Spanish song Lance has no recollection of ever listening to despite being pestered with them.
He loves him so much it nearly makes his bones ache, loves to have him like this, simple, normal. It gives the illusion of mundanity, of them being normal people, and not the ones that actively chose to race at 300k/h as a career.
He shortens the space, feeling the tug to the rope that unites them. Letting the universe do its thing, letting it write their destiny in the stars without worrying, so he wraps his arms around his boyfriend’s waist from behind. Kisses him in the side of the head, Fernando just accepts fondly, goes pliant against him.
The realization falls in place, he has been way too preoccupied with his own self, he has forgotten the Spaniard might need the support as much as he does.
Nando’s world got shaken up as much as his did. Lance knows there will be much more push back from his side, the people he knows, because Fernando chose to get into a relationship with him, with a person much younger, with someone people might think he is much more than.
He needs to be there for him too, to show him that he can offer relief if he wants him like that. But then again, he is way too aware that Nando functions nearly like him, how he will reach out if he needs it, how he doesn’t like to be poked, overwhelmed with protectiveness.
The last thing he wishes to do is make Fernando angry at him, getting him annoyed. It’s not the time nor place, not when he needs him starvingly so. So he stays quiet, offers nice physical comfort and decides to give the information, to let him know, intending to calm him down, "With dad… it’s sort of bad,”
Fernando leaves his culinary work after plating it, eggs with ham and toast, turning around to give his whole attention. Giving him an understanding look, touching his face delicately. This is domestic bliss, he finds.
The lightness rips the words out of his mouth, tells him the truth, recalls pieces and adds information about his conversation, how he was dumb enough to trust, to want to be fully loved and protected by the one person he has always followed along like a loyal dog.
It's accompanied with an endless stream of support, of soft words exchanged, of tears wiped away in comfort, he opens himself up for destruction. He gives and gives without taking anything, not before having the permission to do so.
He is foolish, dumb, and naive, but most certainly he is idiotically in love. Enough to lower all his walls down, enough to tell him and open himself up for criticism. For indignant complaints about the way he handles things, about how easily forgiving he can be, how trusting he is of the people he loves.
The older could easily use it all as ammunition, he could easily rip him apart from the inside out if he liked to do so. He could live up to his reputation, to the mean, conniving man people are accustomed to hear about.
He discovers it doesn’t happen.
Because, in spite of how unbelievable it still is to him, Fernando Alonso fell in love with him too, because he stayed, stays, kisses him in ways that will screw him forever. Holds him tight in ways that will ruin him for anyone else.
And perhaps, that’s what should happen, because he wants this to be it, to not have anyone else. He can't imagine being with anyone but his old silly man, no one could amount to the ideal stream of consciousness they have, to the connection their souls made.
Fernado cuts short his scattered thoughts, pulls him by the shirt in his tiptoes and kisses him, “I'm so sorry, principe.”
For his part he sighs, fixing the longer hair behind his partner's ears, “Fer, I told you, it's fine. I think my dad will eventually come around.”
He doesn't know if he will, but the reassurance should be able to lift the weight off his boyfriend’s shoulders, should be enough to stop him from kicking himself. From feeling responsible for it all.
“I spoke with Chole though. She took it well, says she would like to meet you.” He adds, trying to leave the topic of his father behind, “She - she is happy for me, for us."
"I am glad, mi amor." He says, grabbing his hand and pulling him towards the table, demanding him to sit while he retrieves their breakfast.
He waits, dutiful, pretty under the rays of sunshine that filter through the windows. He fixes his hair, wanting to look a bit put together, presentable - old habits die hard.
The butterflies continue to fly, his stomach convinced that every time they sit at a table is a date, it's like their first day as a couple all over again.
He remembers that particular breakfast like it was yesterday, them sitting around, not looking at each other’s eyes after the night before. They had crossed an irreversible line, had gone from casual hooking up to admitting feelings in the act. He remembers being terrified, sitting with clammy hands waiting for the other to start the usual spiel, almost like a child expecting to be scolded.
He had expected a denial, a rejection of sorts, more than anything because Fernando was the one to clarify since the beginning that what they had was convenient, a way to decompress after races, and nothing more.
Before he had even said in an argument with an arrogant tone, like an asshole, that it was what he did with friends and teammates he respected enough to give the time of the day. And to be painfully honest, Lance has always had very little self respect when it comes to situationships, so he shut up and continued to have sex with him.
It’s not a secret to anyone that knows him that he is very easily enamored with playboys. And, two plus two equals four, and really, having his teammate fucking the living lights out of him day out day not aligned perfectly with his schedule. Plus the added benefit of not having to carry NDAs everywhere he went.
At that moment in time he swore it didn't hurt, as if it didn't make him sick to be exclusive in everything but love. He has always been acutely aware of his failings, so he was the first to admit to Mick and Esteban (after crying his eyes out) that for him it was more - without giving names though, he didn't want to feel responsible for the murder of his crush by Esteban's hands.
His need for Fernando Alonso didn't end with tangled bedsheets, no, because he wanted to hold his hand, wanted him to spend the full night together. He wanted to feel like more than a used and discarded toy.
He wanted to be loved by him, and he had let it slip when their bodies were united. That morning he was sure that he was going to walk back the statement, pretend madness but Lance had been pleasantly surprised. Like he usually is by Fernando and his occurrences.
Fernando didn’t blame the slip of the tongue in sex induced insanity, he admitted. He confessed how much he wanted him, how much he liked him for more than his body, for more than fucking and getting off.
At the start, he was incredulous, he didn’t know he had the ability to enchant Fernando Alonso, his idol Fernando Alonso. Then he too confessed the truth he had hidden since their first night together, he was in love with him, he wanted everything he could give him and that could have been anything.
He would have conformed with a hand in his neck, with feigned friendly contact in mandated media appearances. But he didn’t need to conform, not when he had the possibility of more.
He let himself fall, let the current carry him, he had reached to the other side of the table that morning, he had said, “Finally, I was waiting for you to realize, old man.”
He had faked the confidence, the knowing, but that’s not something his boyfriend needs to know now. Perhaps it's crucial information to put on their wedding vows, if they reach there, so he keeps it secure, close to his chest.
“I would like to meet her too.” Fernando finally says, stopping his unending reminiscing, sitting down to eat, “At least this happening brought something positive.”
It circles back to the main issue. Of how deeply responsible the older feels for the mess created, for the crater left in the public eye. He knows him, he knows that Fernando isn’t feeling alright, that he blames himself, that he is only acting though for him.
"Also… I kind of promised my brother in law one of your helmets." He tries distractions again, breaks the silence that had settled. He needs to hear his laughter, needs him out of his own head.
He almost cheers when he hears it, when the older one gives him the biggest smile since the picture was posted, “How did that even happen?”
He shrugs, they eat in silence for some moments, getting over the breakfast part of the morning rather quickly. He needs him back in between the silk sheets, he needs to fill him with praise, so he answers, “He just - I don't know, screamed down the phone to ask you. In his words, since now you are almost family you should gift him one.”
“I am family?”
“You always were.” He answers honestly, fondly, “You are home, to me.”
“Lancito - it's too early to make me have a heart attack.” He says, joking about his age, but still looking attentively at the purposeful swing of his hips as he gets up. He goes round the table, and sits on the shorter’s lap.
It isn't lost on the younger how the desire appears on the Spaniard's eyes like a pavlovian response.
He is acutely aware that he is in the same position as he was in the picture.
It's a reclamation of sorts. A step forward.
He grabs Fernando's face between his hands and kisses him, tender and ravishing. He hopes he shows how irrational he becomes around him, whispering in slutty slurs, “Fer, let the city hear your name.”
**
The question shocks the group, a horrible silence settles between the five present. Lance doesn't know what to say, how to answer that, his PR manager seems anxious too. Perhaps Lance was really naive to believe them, to trust that the FIA would protect them from unsuspecting homophobia, he was so dumb to accept this circus so soon after the fact.
He should have trusted his gut, the one that told him to be penalized, to accept the penalty or fine, or whatever, and skip media day altogether.
Where would he even start at the implications? What the hell should he answer when it feels like the most invasive, most out of pocket thing he has ever been asked in his 25 years of age (and he has participated in numerous games of truth or dare in his teenage years).
Luckily, before he starts ideating his plan based on the guideline his manager and PR personnel accorded and gave him, before he can take the microphone to answer, the crowned world champion jumps at the opportunity.
"Do you wanna know what I do with Kelly too?" Asks Max Verstappen, joking around but serious enough to blush the brave journalist, looking straight into his eyes.
"Um, I -"
And God bless being in a press conference with two world champions, two of the most important people in the sport, two over-competitive people, because instantly Lewis Hamilton jumps into the conversation too, "We are here to race, not to discuss our private lives."
"Wait Lewis, didn't you know that we should give every piece of our private life to this sport too?" The sarcasm dripping from the Dutch isn't lost on anyone. Lance can only manage to slightly smile, being thankful to have Max on their side, despite the rocky relationship he and Lance have had in previous years.
Still, he knows that Max respects Fernando, that he is fond of him as a friend and as a rival on the track, so maybe he is doing it for him.
It doesn’t matter who he is doing it for, though.
"Max -" Tries to calm the waters Daniel Ricciardo, at his side, chuckling uncomfortably. He looks at the red bull employee behind the camera, she seems to be losing her mind. Seemingly not knowing how to approach her driver and his extreme sincerity and no-questions-asked attitude after all this time.
"Maybe he should ask Lewis about George, Lando about Oscar or me about you or Checo, since he is already implying things that make no sense." He continues, talking to Daniel like no one else exists, asking in a redundant way, "This is stupid, isn't it?"
He is searching into the Alpha Tauri, Toro Rosso (or whatever the hell the red bull sister team is called) driver's eyes for support, egging him on to help too.
Perhaps the threats George made on the drivers group chat helped after all, maybe him sending "Drivers, union strong 💪" a million times after the PDF detailing how to approach him and Fernando as a couple to the media worked.
Really, after this interview Lance should call someone to find a gift for George, maybe a bottle of white wine for his enthusiasm, for his help, for taking the time to do a PowerPoint presentation on what the others should do in situations like these. He is still thrilled that the idea was voted in favor, that the big majority decided to support and not shun or act like they don't exist as a couple.
So maybe he should get a bunch of alcoholic (or not) drinks for about 20 drivers. And various teams, after all, the statements they made in their support helped to calm the waters too.
This is throwing the ball out of the park. It’s just so much more than what they expected. Max, Daniel, and Lewis are setting a precedent whether they know it or not, making the sport more open, more supportive for people like him to follow their dreams.
His chest tightens around his nervous heart, he could cry, he won't.
Because Daniel Ricciardo decides at that moment to say fuck it and put more wood into the fire, to be almost as insane as his friend. Them and that weird fucking habit of playing gay chicken and raising the stakes since 2017, "Maxie, Babe, my sweet pie, you are so right. We should tell the world how much we love each other."
"Of course." Max says, holding onto the other's hand to sell the picture harder. Lance is almost certain that no one could ever win a gay chicken game with him even if they tried their hardest. He knows, he has seen him play it with almost everyone on the grid when drunk enough on gin tonics. He has been a victim too, "We are leaving our girlfriends and riding into the sunset together." His tirade doesn't stop there yet, he dissects what the journalist asked and adds accordingly, "As it seems that the only possible reason for Daniel to have a seat at Red Bull secured for next season is only because of our relationship and not because of the clear talent he shows."
The words are biting, mean spirited, and the man that initially asked seems lost for words, red in the face. Lance still doesn’t miss the gasps of the Red Bull and Daniel’s team (seriously, how the hell is it called?) employees at the fact that Max Verstappen quite literally spoiled that Daniel is racing with the top team for next year.
For his part Lance just shrugs. Ready to answer after the demonstration, taking the chance before the other journalists jump to ask Max about that Daniel seat comment, "It's pretty obvious that two times world champion, Fernando Alonso - is not at Aston Martin only because of me. Our relationship means nothing in the grand scheme of things, when the fact that he is Fernando seems already enough."
He feels so tired, he wishes he had Nando at his side to help, he is way better with diplomatic words tinged in malice. It would be nice, to have his hand in his tight, to hear him murmur curses in Spanish at them, “Also, we were not together when he first signed for the team, so this question is… silly.”
“How long have you been together then?” Asks another journalist, seemingly not catching the piece of information that Max willingly gave them, just to keep questioning Lance. He doesn’t get it, truly perplexed about being the center of attention for once.
Not for the first time since the photo got out he wishes he were in the spotlight because of his abilities, because of racing and not thanks to the relationship he maintains with his boyfriend. It is what it is, but the sting is still there, his pride a bit shattered if he is honest.
It doesn’t escape his attention that they only ask him about the relationship. He saw his boyfriend’s press conference before, to be prepared. It was normal, boring in how normal it was, they asked about driving, if he looked forward to racing in the new Aston Martin, hell, they even asked if he had enjoyed his holidays. They did not mention the issue to Fernando, did not mention him, not directly at least.
He was comfortable, if his boyfriend’s press was anything to go by he was hopeful. He had felt relaxed seeing what was coming for him, and was excited at how easy it seemed. The situation was under control, obviously being managed.
He is very foolish after all.
The difference between Fernando’s and his questions are staggering. He knows they do not respect him, he knows he will never be respected like a previous world champion is, but it still hurts. It shows how little this circus cares about his wellbeing, about him as a person.
It's not like he expected anything else. The motor-sport world has wanted to spit at him since the start, and now they do it with vengeance, they have a reason to do it. People want him to hurt for allowing this to happen. For having enough confidence to ruin someone else’s legacy, like a relationship it’s not a two-way street.
He feels his social battery slowly running out, his expressions starting to drop out of the perfectly constructed facade. He shouldn’t let them win.
“Is this question really that important?” Asks Lewis, perhaps tired of the line of questioning the press conference is going towards. No one answers for a moment.
Lance sighs when no other questions follow. The pack of wolves won’t rest until he gives them what they want, “Six months.” Still, he lets the slight anger show, “Can we move now? I am sure Lando has some insight about the track layout or whatever.”
“Right,” starts another one, “So, Lance-”
“Are you kidding, man?” He hears Lewis say, while Lando speaks for the first time in what feels like ages, “Fuck’s sake, mate, leave them alone.”
Daniel grabs the microphone, and announces clearly, “I am driving for Red Bull next season.”
It’s a reminder, it’s the way he has chosen to help, to get the attention off Lance, which he is undoubtedly grateful for, because he is actually about to reach a panic attack if he continues to feel so out of place. He can’t help but feel bile raising, but to feel like he has been treated like a joke despite the fact that there’s a statement out there by Fernando saying that he loves him.
He wants to fall apart, sob into the soft hands that love him in his driver’s room.
Daniel is still holding hands with Max, he chuckles at the sight, the fucking weirdos. Sometimes he swears that those two would get married for the bit, just to prove a point, just to not lose. It's almost outstanding how as seemingly straight men they are gayer than him, and he has liked boys since he was eleven years old.
“And they are still holding hands.” Adds Lando helping in the distraction, moving on from the questions about Fernando's and Lance's relationship.
“I won’t answer more questions about Fernando’s and mine’s relationship.” He says, giving end to this, to get out his head, out of the pit of insecurities that are raising in his mind.
Fortunately, the journalists move one. He doesn’t get asked any more questions, not about racing, or the car, or his holidays. He giggles bitterly at the realization after.
**
He thought he would never see the day, he could sob, he could cry his heart out. After years, years of abusive language, death threats, of being called the worst thing to happen to the sport he loves so much. After so much time, he is finally in the podium again.
Not only that, but he is just behind his boyfriend, his forty two years old boyfriend, who has just won his 33rd grand prix.
Lance Stroll defended against Max Verstappen, Max in a Red Bull, Max with a nine win streak, a streak that Fernando and him have just ended. Aston Martin, middle of the pack, has broken the streak of the reigning world champion.
Just two weeks ago he would have called anyone that told him this achievement a liar, a mean fucking liar.
He is in second, he is in fucking second. He screams, he screams in celebration down the radio, thanks his race engineer, thanks the team, Henry, whoever comes to mind. He almost screams for Mike to tell Fernando how much he loves him, wants him to know how happy he is, wants to celebrate with him. But he doesn’t say anything.
He will see him soon, he will accompany him to the podium, and will have the pleasure to shower his partner with champagne. See the drops of alcohol fall from the tip of his hair to his feet, to see him hot and wet and shimmering under the sun.
His heart bursts at the imagination, at the possible near future.
He has the pleasure of proving every hater, doubter and casual watcher wrong.
He is drunk already without needing to taste the champagne, his heart beating hard against his ribcage, dancing in cloud nine. There’s nothing that could break the elation, the pure sweetness of being dumbly in love. He can’t even imagine what sadness feels like, not when he drives slowly around the track, hearing the roaring crowd, not when he drives alongside Fernando, going in tandem. He feels so fucking silly for waving at him, for smiling when he knows for a fact that he can’t see him.
There’s just an insane hurricane of emotions he can’t begin to explain. If he was deranged enough to crash after making the podium he would even make a heart sign towards him.
The team is congratulating him, announcing Fer’s win to him. And he can’t do anything else but cheer, but scream, but almost cry when Mike says that he has always trusted him to deliver. They say he defended well, he is the reason why Fernando maintains his podium, he says back that he is happy to help.
He isn’t lying. He can’t even find a reason to be mad, doesn’t even care that they prioritized his boyfriend, that he was asked to protect or that they made an undercut to him. He doesn’t give a shit, because he knows how important this is to Fernando, how important it is for the Spaniard and his brand, his country, everything he represents.
How important it is after the waves of people calling him washed only after their relationship was made known.
It feels sweet, like redemption, parking his car after the fourteen, parking his car behind the number two after the disaster that has been the past weeks, after the mess that dealing with their PR team and the FIA has been.
He breathes in the moment, lets the heaviest sentiments escape into the air, fixing his head.
He is so excited, so glad to share these loud wins, these moments of pure joy with the person he loves publicly. Because the outing was not fun, it still isn’t - if his Instagram comments are anything to go by.
But the fact that Fernando uploaded that picture allows him to jump out of his car, it allows him to almost run towards the older, towards the short man that is expecting him.
Winning looks so good on him, the sweaty messy look making him handsomer than he already is.
Fernando is fixing his hair, leaving his helmet to the side, not even attempting to act like he cares about anything else that isn’t Lance, just looking forward with a smile, ignoring anything else.
He is so fond, his heart almost rips itself apart from his chest. He doesn’t even celebrate, doesn’t go to the mechanics chanting their names in unison. No, he jumps out of his car with necessity, not even caring to take his helmet off.
He loses himself to a perfect hug. Wraps his arms around the older, pressing him strongly, saying in delirious ecstasy how proud he is.
And perhaps, he is crying, he is allowing himself to feel every emotion and shivers on the skin.
It feels like eons, only them grabbing each other, with security, with want, with so much things to say but not enough time to talk.
He feels a tiny tapping on the side of his helmet and raises his head, looks at Fernando Alonso in the eyes, and isn’t surprised to find there’s unshed tears too. His other half, the love of his life. He deserves this so much.
Fernando is asking without saying, he simply nods, lets the older man work his helmet off, lets him take care of it for him. Like he always does with what matters the most.
He doesn’t know from where Max approaches them, doesn’t understand why he grabs Lance’s helmet off Fernando’s hands, but he is giving them space, smiling like he knows something they don’t.
Maybe he does. Maybe he is an evil mastermind, destroyer of worlds or whatever, he thinks incoherently. At least he is a destroyer of their little peaceful bubble. He looks back at him perplexed, about to ask what’s his deal.
Fer brings him back, back, back to the reality of them.
They have won.
He finds he doesn’t even care about Max anymore.
Or about what any other person thinks. It doesn’t matter if the crowd is cheering or booing, he doesn’t give a shit, not when he has Nando’s hands in his cheeks caressing him softly. Not when he says. “I am so proud of you, Lancito.”
Not even when he brings him closer. It’s not even a thought that they are doing anything wrong. They don’t care about any of the proposed rules by the FIA, other couples can kiss without the world ending. He allows Fernando to do anything, he will follow him to the end of the earth if he has to.
There’s just one objective in mind, loving, showing the world that he is devoted to his older, pretty teammate.
Everything gets silenced, nothing exists but the softness in his belly, but the delicious lips of his boyfriend, his soulmate, his other half. Drugged into the other’s relentless love, the tender grasp, the clutch of his hands in his race suit.
He feels complete, realized, full of an unknown peace.
They separate after some seconds, remembering where they are. He feels almost shy at the amount of cameras capturing their intimate moment, but Fer doesn’t allow his thoughts to fester, holding his hand and dragging him. He is having an out of body experience, he has been put on autopilot after the kiss.
He just follows, is brought to the scale, weighted. Has a water bottle given to him, and then he is being dragged to the sea of Aston Martin green.
Just then the power comes back on his brain again, just then he hugs any mechanic or personnel he sees. Having Fernando at his side talking, a cap put over his head. He sees his father too, and this time, there’s a nod accompanied with an honest smile.
They have reached an understanding, perhaps Chloe had a talk with him like she said she would. If it is the case then he owes her big time.
Lawrence Stroll is the one to break the uncomfortable distance between them, he reaches over the protective fence, and hugs him, holds him close like he is the baby he first held that October 29. He apologizes right under his ear, says he is proud, says so much he doesn’t fully understand. He feels his eyes water at having his support back, at the tender kiss left on his cheek.
He smiles shyly at the exchange, at his father having a handshake with Fernando after, finally allowing their relationship with a simple smile but not enough to hug the Spaniard yet.
That’s another milestone for another time. He wants to reach it soon though, wants to be responsible for holding a dinner between Fernando's family and his.
He annotates the task somewhere in the back of his brain.
He must concentrate in the now, in the winning, in him right by his boyfriend’s side while they have a chat with Mike Krack. Have a laugh with the ocean of green congratulating them. Fernando jokes around that they should have gone public earlier if these were gonna be the results. He fully body laughs at that, feeling showered under the sunshine of their team’s unending support.
“We should go to the interview.” Fernando says, signaling to where Max is, talking animatedly - or how the internet calls it, yapping - with Lance’s helmet still in his hand. There's the explanation he needed, “He has covered for us enough.”
**
“Well, looks like the lovebirds are ready,” says Max. Smirking and giving the space for them to talk with Mark Webber. He still doesn’t give Lance his helmet back, instead, he grabs him, “Maybe we should swap. I already grew fond of this one.”
“Sure, Max.” It’s the least he could do for the older, for him talking way more than needed to wait for them, for him helping in the press. He takes the champion’s helmet with pure gratitude, shaking his hand. “Thank you.”
“So, Lance. Congratulations.” Says Mark, calling his attention after Max gives him the microphone with a nod and a smirk, “How do you feel?”
“Great, it was a fun race, especially all the fighting with Max towards the end.” He says, showing the other’s helmet like a trophy of sorts. Looking towards the Dutch, who's talking easily with Fernando after their shared hug.
“It must feel amazing to be here after so many seasons, what are your thoughts?”
His PR-trained brain works overtime, searching to not sound offended at the mention of how many seasons it has been. “Honestly, it’s kind of surreal after everything. But the team has been working hard, the performance of the car has grown, and I just - I am really happy to be sharing the podium with Fernando, and Max too.”
“Two world champions, eh?”
He giggles, “Yeah, hopefully it will be three someday.”
“Sure.” Mark says, “We couldn’t help but see that your teammate overcut you, do you think you could have been the winner if that didn’t happen?”
“Damn, Mark, you will get me in trouble.” He jokes around, losing his more reserved facade after such a nice victory, after so much happiness. He shrugs, “Honestly, a lot could have happened, but I knew Fernando had better pace - It’s like that sometimes, I guess.” He continues in a more hopeful note, “If the car’s performance is anything to go by though, I’m sure that there will be more opportunities for me too. So, not too mad.”
“So, to further clarify, no hard feelings?”
“No, none at all. Nando is a great teammate and competitor. I am glad that it’s him if not me.” He is honest to a fault, “I am happy I could help with his 33rd victory.”
“Finally, I kinda have to ask here. Lance, how does it feel to share this moment with your partner?” It seems like he is almost sorry for asking, after all he is awfully aware of how much Fernando and Lance like to protect their privacy sometimes. He was one of the first ones to learn about their relationship just after Esteban (Mick came much later, and only because he noticed changes in the way Lance acted).
Lance doesn’t take offense to the question, “Amazing. Just - yeah.”
“Thanks Lance,” the Australian dismisses him, preparing to interview Fernando now. He feels several eyes on him but still goes to stand right next to the Red Bull driver, giving all of his attention to Nando, sipping water while he hears him talk.
“Fernando Alonso ladies and gentlemen!” The retired driver announces, making the crowd go insane while the Spaniard laughs, waving to the people. Max and himself can’t help but clap amused too, “Congrats mate! Victory number 33, how does it feel?”
“Mark, it feels so nice. A pressure off the shoulders.” He admits, touching his cap in a nervous manner Lance knows well, “It was an exciting race from the very start, really difficult in the corners.”
“Right, tell me, what happened between you and Lando Norris in lap 20?”
“It was an incident, he tried to make a maneuver and I couldn’t avoid him. Fortunately nothing too bad happened to either of us.”
“What a recovery that was.” Mark gives professionally after looking at the screens, the big admiration between them is still present after decades, “How does it feel to have a seemingly competitive car after so many years?”
“God, so good,” He says relieved, “As Lance mentioned, the boys have been working hard on the factory. And, man, the results show.”
“Something you want to say to your supporters, or Spain in general?”
“Bueno, primero, muchas gracias por confiar siempre. Os dije que iba a traer la victoria número 33 y lo logramos, ¡Ahora vamos por la 34!” He ends with the crowd roaring in support, and before he gives back the microphone, he adds, “Also, Mark, I want to thank my Lance. Amor, without you this wouldn’t be possible.”
And the mad man sends him a flying kiss with a wink to end the interview, makes his warm pink cheeks the center of the attention, the talk of practically everyone. He should kill him for shinning the spotlight on him, but he finds he doesn’t care too much at the moment. Not when they have won.
Although, perhaps it doesn’t annoy him because it is objectively hilarious to have a bunch of cameras documenting the moment, the return of the kiss in an exaggeration, like a lovesick adolescent who has just fallen in love.
He gives the stupid, idiotic journalists something to talk about for a whole news circle. They should thank him, really, they can’t say again that he doesn’t corporate with them. He should be knighted for it.
**
The cooldown room goes down quickly, all of them being purely professional, giving their thoughts on the race, laughing together and asking about the fights on the track with other competitors. It's awesome to finally be part of the joke, for Lance to form part of what social media has called the Max Verstappen podcast. It’s something no one would have thought him capable of.
He did that shit. He has proven everyone wrong.
If this car has the power to bring him back and back into the podium, he will prove the comments under the Aston Martin posts wrong continually, till he dies, or until they drop him from the AM seat - never.
He will prove his worth by his boyfriend’s side if they are able to keep the momentum.
Max is the first one to leave, it’s impressive how calm he is, almost like he is passing through. A level of levity that he thinks it must come with being a third time world champion, the change it’s so apparent. He has become quieter since 2021, has nothing else to prove, a shell of his past self, not more mad Max.
He can’t even imagine how shaky his own self must look in comparison, how nervous he must look on the eyes of the world watching. When his name is called into the podium he feels his stomach drop. He has honestly forgotten how this works. He breathes in little serene intervals before stepping outside, into the arms of the media, the fans that wait excited.
He is thankful that there’s not an outward pour of hate, or at least if there is he can’t hear it under the screams of his team, of his father, of the amounts of Aston Martin supporters. He smiles, puts his arms up in celebration, drinks the enthusiasm of the fans. He is anticipating like he did years before, when he was just a kid watching cars go around wiggly tracks, when he was a fan of the red card going around in fast successions. He still can’t believe that the man who was driving the car it’s now his.
He allows himself to clap eagerly when Fernando appears after being announced. He watches him jump on the top steps, silly movements in celebration, shaking his hands and standing tall, proud.
For the first time, he is in a place where he can look up towards his short boyfriend genuinely. He smiles at the thought, he can’t wait to share the joke with him after this, to see the indignant scoff and side eye of his boyfriend.
Fernando is a celestial painting, a sculpture made by the most talented hands of a past generation. He is sure Michelangelo would be envious of not being responsible for creating him. All sharp edges that cover the softest, most wonderful person, all the fake bravado that hides the goofiest man he has ever had the pleasure to be with. He is so lucky to be with him.
Nando moves something inside him he can’t even begin to explain, rattles his intestines with sickening power, makes him want to believe in more than one godly figure despite his jewish upbringing.
He is full of fortune, of hope, of good, fresh like mint just cut from the plant. Full of greenish hues. So much peaceful green accompanied by gold, mixed in golden warmth, golden light, golden medals hung around as necklaces. He is transfixed on the hands, following the patterns of the veins, the hands that have held him still, that have made a mess of him before. The hands that pet him softly, that grip him in strength, the same hands that have left marks on his waist.
They are the same hands that grab the trophy in over the head, in celebration. Fernando shakes it in a dance, showing it proudly, following the melodic song of support the crowd creates at his sight.
He shouldn’t be jealous, it’s pure deranged energy. He shouldn’t be jealous of a trophy, of how Fernando looks at it like it’s his most important achievement yet. He wants to be seen like that, to get admired like something noteworthy too.
He takes his hat off in shame, he shouldn’t feel like that. Not when he knows how much the other adores him, how many times he has said it. How many songs he has dedicated to him, has translated them perfectly in his ear, sharing bit by bit a piece of him, of his history.
How strongly he has said that he loves him, he has kissed him all over, has fixed his wrists by icing them almost all by himself. Has whispered sweet nothings and ideas of a possible future together, has bitten and marked him possessively. He has changed him from the inside out, has made him better just by existing by his side, just by allowing him to be entirely himself without criticism.
He expects anxiously, waits for the hymn to start, to see the happiness extending on Alonso's face at the melody that has given him so much, to the country that has spurred him on all his lengthy career. The Canadian looks up at him with wonder, fondness, like he has always done, in news, in posters, in private moments between the comfort of hotel rooms and bedrooms. He doesn't care for anything more than looking intensely, shooting a perfect composition of the scene to his memory, a dignified photo, keeping it secure behind lock and key, posting it on every tiny fold of his brain.
He eats at it, consumes all that he can’t explain with words, tastes the proud arrogance that comes off in waves from his lover, drinks thirstily the look that is given back when it's his turn to pop the champagne at the sound of the Toreador song, the mythical song used since the ninties. He follows the promise he made with himself, he lets his heart take the reigns, behaves stupidly enamored.
He pours almost the whole bottle on Alonso’s head, showering him, the older opening his mouth needly, letting it drip and drip. It’s a sinful sight, a sight that could make the biggest saint on earth betray God in a heartbeat. Truly if Lance were a less controlled person he would be awfully hard on his racesuit.
Max, and the Aston guy on the podium seemingly catch on their performance quickly and follow through on soaking them both. It feels like being scolded for their needless behaviour, he smiles.
He has allies, has people that have his back, not only in this instance, but in every place he looks, in every cranny, there’s someone that is willing to help. Someone that has lent him a hand when they could have turned around or shown their backs to his and Nando’s relationship. He doesn’t know fully what he has done to deserve it. To feel wanted, to feel like he belongs somewhere else than with shady people that wanted nothing more than his money and the warmth his body could offer.
He feels out of it. Constantly thinking in circles he doesn’t see the end of.
Fernando is the only thing anchoring him to earth, the one person capable enough to take him out of his head, to calm the part of him he doesn’t know how to deal with. He giggles at the dumb sight, at how Fer tries to defend himself against everyone’s spray in spite of how little he can retaliate.
He shakes like a wet dog, looks absolutely unholy, wickedly hot. Ready just for him, prepared and given to him in a golden plate. He wants to jump into him, to take and make. He wishes he had learned teleportation or something, that he could blink and bring them both to the hotel room they share.
He observes, bothered, desires bubbling on the surface dangerously. Sees him nearing the barriers of the balcony to throw the rest of the bottle to their crew and gulps.
He feels the pull, the impossibly big crave of standing at his side in complete silence, everything is a nice muffled quiet next to his lover, no more static. He wants that.
He looks down towards the crowd and he doesn’t feel mighty, nor more important than before the race. He just feels, weirdly, strange.
He giggles watching the crew as they pass the bottle, how they cheer his father on to chug the little that is still there. He isn’t even surprised to feel the hand sneaking in his waist, or the words asking if he is alright. He knows him too well, it’s a bit upsetting how nothing seems to avoid him.
Fernando Alonso talks like he has graduated from an accelerated study course in everything about Lance Stroll, he sometimes finds it exasperating to be known so fully. He never intended to be so easy to read by the person who loves him, never intended to return the favor either. Perhaps that’s what’s love is all about, knowing the other like they are another piece of you, perhaps that’s what the fairytales meant when they talked about soulmates, about how wonderful being in love should be.
He answers in a semi lie, telling him that he is fine. It’s not entirely accurate, but he can’t begin to explain what he doesn’t understand, much less when there are people around. When the lip readers are near on social media. His lover nods, promises to talk after, and keeps on holding lightly, giving the comfort physically until they can detangle his thoughts in the mattress.
Until Max retrieves them to take the pictures they just exist, glued to their spot, watching, observing the world beneath them in hope for the days that come.
Fernando stands in the center of the image, how it should forever be. He presses on his side, grabbing him in possessive want, in promised private celebrations.
Lance knows, he just knows what waits for him, and he couldn’t be more delighted to form part of it. To be used, to be cared, to be loved without reasoning. Nano loves him, he is loved without any second intention behind, without anything else but pure yearning.
“Principe, I love you so much.” He says right under his ear, leaving a kiss on his cheek, grabbing his trophy and dragging him off the podium with his other hand. He follows delighted, floating in cloud nine, touching the sky by holding onto the hand.
He hears him attentively, looks at his profile, bubbling snugness against his chest. His chest doesn’t have enough space to hold the way he adores him.
So, honestly, don’t blame him if he doesn’t mind being the scandalous younger boyfriend of an accomplished racing driver, of a two times Formula 1 world champion. He doesn’t mind being spoiled by him, kissed, and made love by the older.
Fernando Alonso is a drug and he is totally addicted to him without shame.