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"You ready?"
Franco leaned hard against his overstuffed suitcase, willing it shut. This thing would get to Qatar in one piece by God's hand alone, he concluded. He looked up to see Lewis' face poking through his door, expectant, but not impatient.
"Of course," he beamed, corralling his gear like an ill-behaved Doberman.
Lewis's eyebrow raised in skepticism. "Are you sure? You…don't need my help or anything?" His lips quirked up the tiniest bit.
Franco waved him off with a psshhsh. "I could carry two of these with a third on my back. Let's go, wey?"
He moved past Lewis with his usual self-assurance. Maybe a little too quickly. Okay, definitely too quickly as he bungled the elevator entry and tipped the whole mass over, clothes and toiletries springing everywhere. "Mierda."
Lewis stifled a laugh and set to helping the young man, not lingering on anything too long as he folded and tossed, folded and tossed. Franco said nothing as he wadded and threw, wadded and threw, elevator cruising ever downward with his whole life strewn across its floor. At last, they both managed to sit on the damn thing and zipper it shut, just as the doors popped open.
Franco offered his hand, a little sweaty from the effort. "Thanks, mate," he still managed to say cooly, hand steady as Lewis pumped it once.
"Anytime, man. Told you you'd need my help." He smiled and checked his phone. "C'mon, our ride's right over there."
Embarrassing as it was, his luggage mishap had taken his mind off what had been consuming him ever since he was asked: that Lewis would take back his offer of flying Franco to the next race on his private plane. From what he'd gleaned in the paddock, Lewis hadn't asked anyone to join him on a flight in years. Notoriously shielded, Lewis kept to himself off-track; not even Valtteri had been given the chance.
Now alone in an Uber with one of his racing idols, Franco tried not to let his thoughts spin out of control. Why him? What made him so special? A matter of convenience, surely. Or pity. Franco's torrid luck in Brazil had followed him to Vegas, only this time the crash couldn't be partially shouldered by his engineers; this time, it was all him. He wouldn't have been a bit surprised if Lewis had canceled on him. Why take on damaged goods?
As if sensing his spiral, Lewis broke the silence. "Good race yesterday, man."
"Thanks." The smile on Franco's face was genuine, but tense. "I wish I could have done more, you know?"
"Oh, I definitely know." He let a hint of regret wash over his face, unmistakable in the constant rush of street lights. "If only I hadn't messed up in Q3—" He stopped himself short.
Franco laughed in spite of things. "Hey man, at least you made it to Q3." He playfully slapped at Lewis's thigh. "I got to spend it in the hospital!"
Lewis giggled, not unkindly. "Yeah, I guess I'll take a P2 instead of that." His laugh faded. "You sure you're all right after a hit like that?"
Franco glanced towards their driver, whose silence now seemed ominous. You never knew who could be listening nowadays, who had phones recording, who had swift fingers connected to social media. "No, mate, I'm fine. They cleared me, my head's right. It's all good."
"Good." Lewis beamed at him and swung at his arm, the lightest of jabs. "We need to keep you young guys in one piece. It's the least we can do."
~~~
He had had every intention of letting sleep take him as soon as he entered the cabin. Flopping into a luxurious recliner, he let out a surprised noise as he found the massage controls. He gave Lewis props: the most successful man in the history of the sport sure knew how to spend his money.
"Aw, that's nuffin'," Lewis grinned. "You should see what's in the back."
Pouting at the loss of blissful vibes on his aching muscles, Franco scrambled to follow his host. Passing through a gigantic bathroom complete with Jacuzzi ("Is this it??" "Nope, keep going"), they came to a frosted set of sliding glass doors. Franco could swear he smelled a hint of something sweet, almost tropical.
"You don't have any allergies, do you?" Lewis inquired, suddenly anxious. Once Franco assured him he didn't, he visibly relaxed and opened the doors wide.
Framing an enormous bed were dozens upon dozens of flowers. Lewis had arranged waterfalls of lavender, jasmine and honeysuckle in staggered loggias, each tier further back from the one below. To the side, orchids and lilies exploded with color above a plush faux-fur bench. Soft purple lighting and super chill music completed the breathtaking display.
Franco could only stare in wonderment at the fantastical garden all around him. Agog, he took in a deep breath, heady with fragrance. "It's so, so beautiful," he exhaled, face glowing pale violet.
Lewis motioned to the bed, eyes sparkling. "Go on, sit. You know you want to." If he'd guessed Franco hadn't had much chance to enjoy a multimillionaire's bed…well, he wouldn't be entirely right, but that was a discussion for another day.
Gingerly, he sat on the edge of the bed…and felt himself sinking. It was like sitting on a cloud spun from cotton candy and velvet. He sagged backwards into a mass of pillows, some fuzzy, some textured, all soft, so blessedly soft.
Dimly, he felt Lewis join him, a weight distant but pleasant. "I know people say you should have a hard bed if you have a bad back, but nuts to that." Lewis wrinkled his nose self-indulgently and stretched out, almost as if he were swimming the backstroke. The bed was so huge, Lewis didn't even come close to touching him; they could have had a whole other person in between.
It was Franco that closed the distance. Hesitantly, he crawled over to where Lewis laid, resting on his side and propping himself up on his shoulder.
"Do you always live like this?" As much as he'd like to believe this was all for him, it was easy for Franco to imagine Lewis just always having a full-on nursery in his jet.
"Ever since I realized I need to chill the fuck out away from the racetrack." His smile hid history. "We run around the world at breakneck speed, we put our bodies through hell…we hardly ever get a chance to truly relax. It sounds corny, but during the season, this is my way of touching grass. It's one of the few things keeping me sane right now." He chuckled with a dark undercurrent, which melted away when he refocused on his young guest. "After the last couple weekends you've had, I thought maybe it'd be good for you. It's not quite on the level of a therapist, but it might heal the body and, with it, the mind."
"Oh, my psych can find his own way to Qatar. I'm hogging all this for myself." He grinned, but his usual flippancy faltered.
Suddenly Franco appeared ten years older, the shadows deep under his eyes. Even in the artificial purple, his face seemed to take on a fraught, yellowed pallor. All his efforts, day in day out, had taken their toll. When he closed his eyes, Lewis could almost feel something breaking inside him.
"Hey." He reached out to give Franco's hand a light squeeze. "You okay? Really?"
At Lewis' touch, Franco's face contracted; a tear glistened on his cheek. He shook his head.
"You want to talk about it?"
What could he even say? That he was scared he wasn't completely healed, but he would have gone in with every bone broken, just to race? To prove himself, to prove to himself that he deserved to be here, that he could carry the burden of an entire nation? That if he couldn't, he'd be spitting in the faces of 46 million people who placed their hopes and dreams in him? That even with his dynamite support system, there were still so few people who could truly understand what he was going through?
His tortured brain righted itself. Here, right in front of him, was someone who might get it, someone who wasn't looking to gain anything. Someone who had fought his own lonely battles for years, who knew what it was like, and was still hanging in there, tough as nails.
"It's, just… it's a lot," he croaked out, letting the tears fall. "I try to deal, I make a lot of jokes, but…it's a lot, and quickly."
"I know, man." Lewis's voice barely breached a whisper. "Believe me, I know. You get thrown into the deep end, and you're expected to be flawless with the whole world watching." He squeezed again, harder. "But you gotta look at it this way: it wouldn't hurt this bad if you weren't this good."
Franco nodded, sniffling. "I know, I know I'm good, I know what I can do. It just hurts to not prove it."
Lewis drew himself up into a sitting position, scrunching himself over to get close to Franco's miserably handsome face. "You know what? You've already proven it. You don't have to fight anymore to get into this sport; they're gonna have to fight to keep you out. You belong here. Don't let anybody tell you different, especially yourself."
Franco tried on a shaky, haunted smile. For the first time in weeks, he thought he could feel sunshine again. He squeezed Lewis's hand back, grateful beyond measure.
As his anxious adrenaline ebbed away, exhaustion took its place with a vengeance. An audacious thought occurred to him. Dare he…? Well, he'd fallen apart in front of his hero without being shunned; may as well test those boundaries.
"Sorry, I…is it too much to…" He pointed at Lewis's lap, finger barely shaking. "...to rest? On you?" He couldn't keep his face from turning scarlet, but at least he'd be without regret.
Lewis looked at him inquisitively; for one horrible second, the younger man thought he might have been grossly misunderstood. Then Lewis scooched backwards until he reached the headboard, placed a sumptuous pillow on his folded legs, and patted it as if to lure a sleepy cat. His face bloomed into the kindest smile. "C'mere."
Tripping over himself, Franco lurched over to where he was wanted. Finally able to let go, he placed his head atop the pillow, curling up next to Lewis's hip with palpable relief. "Thank you," he whispered.
Lewis said nothing. Instead, he combed his fingers through auburn curls until the youth drifted away, safe in paradise.