Work Text:
Max finds out on a Saturday morning over the summer break.
The whole world finds out, rather. But Max isn’t thinking about the world as he slides into the front seat of his rented car, a dinged-up black Peugeot 207 with a replacement front bumper in matte grey. Max’s hood is up, plain black hoodie and straight jeans, cheap sunglasses he bought in São Paulo years ago firmly on his face. He’s got a face mask on, too, a blue disposable one, and it does just as good a job concealing his identity as it does hiding the hickey that his hookup left on his jaw. Because fucking of course. Max doesn’t want marks. His Grindr bio literally says so, which might be overkill except it’s clearly necessary when these bastards don’t want to listen to him anyway. It’s crazy.
Because they’re all about the same, see? On Grindr in this area, and on all the other apps. Men with something to hide. Max gets it, the want to leave marks. He really does. It fucking sucks to have a whole night together, to sully hotel sheets with the kinds of lovemaking usually reserved for, well, actual love, when you know the next morning will have you stepping out into sunny streets and pretending to forget all about it. Max never learns their names. His cries are wordless when they take him, and his thank-yous are generic at the door. But they’re always asking for his name, so he tells them it’s Franz. Can’t give the media even a single clue, can he?
If they find out, he’s fucked.
But they won’t find out. Here, right now, he isn’t Max Verstappen, Formula One World Champion. He’s just Max. Or maybe he’s Franz. He’s just another tourist from up north, face hidden and unfashionably thrifty weekend bag tucked into the passenger seat. And anyway — it’s a pleasant drive back to Monaco, a drive where everyone else on the road is so self-obsessed they won’t even care to peek past his windshield and see him. And even if they did, they wouldn’t be able to see him. Uncomfortably sore, covered in marks, dead tired.
He has a mountain of work he’s been putting off that he wants to keep putting off. Chief among them — talking with the PR people about soft launching his “relationship” with a lovely Danish model that he’s spoken to maybe twice. Ugh.
About halfway to Monte Carlo, his phone starts blowing up, nearly punching a hole through his jeans pocket.
“Fuck,” says Max, and then, quietly, “Verdomme.” Maybe the deadline for that soft launch was supposed to be yesterday or something and now they’re all mad at him. His phone just buzzes away at him with the irregular rhythm that means texts, WhatsApp, insta, email, texts. “Coming, I’m fucking coming, okay.”
He pulls off the road. Good thing there’s a shoulder here, or he would be swimming right now. He sighs, pulling out his phone.
It’s carnage in his email, so he ignores that. He also ignores insta. Never a good idea to get news from there. He ignores about fifteen texts from his father — all bashing Lewis, but that’s old hat.
Lando texted him. So did Charles.
All Lando said is, did u hear???
Ominous. Max’s heart leaps into his throat. His hand trembles as he taps on Charles’s message, expecting maybe to see photos of himself from this morning, or last night, photos with whatshisname-French-guy where they’re kissing — or worse — but no. The curtains were closed, weren’t they? And the guy said his neighbors were out, and so was his wife.
Charles said, Look at this.
And linked an article from some British newspaper Max doesn’t read. The headline? Sir Lewis Hamilton, F1 Star, Comes Out As Gay In Shock Instagram Post.
And then Charles said, You support him, no? George wants everyone to say something, check the GDPA chat you recluse
Max’s phone shakes in his hands, shakes until it rattles right out and into the footwell of the car. Max doesn’t pick it up. He gets out of the car, calm as can be, and picks his way onto a little grassy slope by the side of the road. And he sits there for a while.
Then he gets back in the car and picks up his phone and just reads.
***
“I think I made the wrong decision,” says Lewis, on a Zoom call with his PR team and Fred. They’re giving him grace, thank God, for his unwashed face, unconcealed dark circles, pajamas and bonnet still firmly on. There’s a container of coconut milk ice cream melting on his desk. His hands are shaking. His phone is on silent. “Everyone knows too much about me now.”
“Well, we can’t repeal the statement now,” says his PR officer. “We could get Charles to release something before the break ends. Something to take the heat off you.”
“I think I made the wrong decision,” says Lewis, on a phone call with Charles. He’s in his home gym, too strung out to even get off the yoga mat he’s laying on and do some pull-ups or something.
“Maybe we can get a rainbow special livery,” Charles muses, his accent crackling through the phone. “For both of us, or everyone, like Seb’s shirts. Solidarity.”
“I think I made the wrong decision,” says Lewis, on the phone with his dad. “I just — they’re being mean to me, dad, people online, I don’t — I don’t know what to do.”
“You are strong, Lewis,” says his dad. “You just keep doing what you been doing. People look up to you. This won’t change that, you know? You just keep going.”
“But, daddy, I —” Lewis has to cut himself off. It must be allergies, or something, that’s getting him all choked up. Never mind that he hasn’t called his father that since he was ten, maybe.
“I know, Lulu.” Another old name. Lewis wants to go home, but it isn’t even there anymore. He moved his dad out of that old house in Stevenage as soon as he could, and its rusting gutters and faulty heater went to someone else. “You wanna come stay for a bit?”
“I think I made the wrong decision,” says Lewis, still in his pajamas, answering the door to find Nico with a takeout bag. Behind him, Vivian waves from their door, which is just across the hall from Lewis’s. They make up two of the four penthouses in this building.
“I know,” says Nico, barging in. “Here. Burger and a salad from the one place you like. Let me guess, you’ve only eaten ice cream and cereal today?”
“Frosties,” mumbles Lewis.
“I know,” says Nico, setting the bag on the breakfast bar, petting Roscoe with his foot. “You can’t change it. It’s out in the world now, Lewis. Are you going to be Seb and stand up for yourself, or are you going to be me and retire? Let me tell you. You would not be a very good commentator. Be Seb.”
Lewis shrugs. The bag is more full than he thought. “Are you staying for dinner?”
Nico nods, one eyebrow arched as if to say obviously.
I think I made the wrong decision, thinks Lewis, later, when he’s in bed with fresh pajamas on, the lights out and his chillest playlist drifting through his speakers. He reaches for his phone on the nightstand, thumbing past social media and email to the GDPA chat. Everyone has said something in support, so far, starting with George and Carlos and Charles and trickling all the way down to the rookies with their all-lowercase and their emoticons.
Seriously. gay is yay :3 we <3 u sir lewis!! wrote Ollie. Lewis has to smile a bit at that. Because what does that even mean, “gay is yay.” God bless.
Other messages range from the serious (Lewis, I swear that the GDPA will stand beside you at every turn and advocate fully for your continued safety and happiness as a veteran driver, indisputably one of the greatest of all time, for as long as you continue to race us and beyond from George) to casual (love is love bro from Pierre). Even Lance, who was definitely asleep when the news went out and also never talks in the chat, sent a message.
Only two drivers didn’t. Fernando, who texted Lewis separately because he would rather die than admit to anyone else that they’re friends.
And Max. Fucking of course. Didn’t reach out in any way. Didn’t even like the fucking post.
Lewis drops his phone on the floor and turns over. Not like he expected anything else.
I think I made the wrong decision, thinks Lewis, making a mental note to ask about that rainbow livery thing and also maybe to reach out to Toto to get some support from his old team. George would agree in a heartbeat, and so would Kimi, probably.
Tomorrow’s problem. Time to sleep.
***
Max is in his kitchen, in his flat in Monaco, and his cats are hanging out underfoot as usual. He’s settled at the too-big table with a box of last night’s leftovers and a sparkling water, flicking through his phone. It’s hot out, morning given way to midday, and the windows are open to let the breeze flow in.
He’s just sent the email begging PR to reconsider the relationship with the Danish girl. Now his phone is open to his texts with Lewis, and he’s just staring at it. The last time they texted was after Zandvoort. Congrats on the home podium! wrote Lewis. Max thanked him and that was that.
Max is thinking about two nights ago.
His Grindr profile is bare bones. Bare torso, bare back, plain white button down with his hand on the buttons so it’s obvious how nice his hands are. Franz, age 29. Some French dude in his DMs, faceless, age in the 40s. Max likes them older. They sexted for a month before they met two nights ago.
The flat was nice. Very French with the carved granite and cramped layout. Double bed with a woman’s perfume and hairbrush sitting out on one side. The curtains were drawn tight, windows shut. Two good rounds and a smoke in the bed. The guy had a tattoo just under his collarbone. Two birthdates. One in 2018 and one in 2021.
“They are called Hugo and Lucie.” He had a thick accent and misty eyes. “They went with their mother to the sea. Her parents, in Arcachon. The Atlantic, no?”
Max hummed. He was thinking of all the things he hasn’t done. He was thinking of a woman who had a daughter he had loved. The woman, he had failed to love. Now his parents won’t have grandchildren. Worth it, though, right? All they ever wanted was for him to race.
“I stay here,” said the guy. “For work and I have … My wife, she suspects. But we do not do anything because of Hugo and Lucie. Maybe when they are older …”
Max understood. He really did. There are still things to take care of, still things to do before letting anyone know the truth. Feeling this way, being this way, it has to be secondary. Then when you’ve done your duty you can feel or be whatever you want. Until then, it gets in the way. That’s what his father said.
You can’t have it all.
Max picks up his phone. On the street someone is laughing, a couple of people laughing together. Max types a message. Retypes it. Sends it and then goes and puts his phone in his bedroom, away from him.
you came out
can we talk?
***
Can we talk? Can we fucking talk?
Lewis is on a plane to New York, like, right now. So no. They can’t talk. God. The audacity of this guy. Won’t send a message of support or something, won’t even make a stupid little instagram story about it like everyone else did, black screen plus “Proud of you mate @lewishamilton” plus pride flag emoji. Seriously. Fernando posted a fucking TikTok about it and it was hilarious, too. Max is online, like, constantly, isn’t he, so he’s for sure seen everyone else being bare minimum allies. What’s his deal? Like, actually, what is his deal?
Sorry, writes Lewis. I’m in New York for a bit. Shooting my designs. No time to talk
Lewis isn’t stupid. He doesn’t read the headlines. Just lets his PR people tell him what he needs to know. But this? Walking through the airport, feeling eyes on him at every turn? This is bigger than the headlines. This is real. And he hasn’t felt it properly since 2014, maybe, or maybe he’s never stopped feeling it. It’s the awareness that no matter where you go, someone is judging you. Someone is pitying you. Someone is calling you all sorts of names in their head, and maybe they will out loud, too. And it’s the awareness that even in the smallest rooms, even in the friendliest crowds, someone there wants to beat the shit out of you.
Lewis doesn’t like it. But he has security, and there’s a car waiting for him, and so his hood goes up and his shades go on and he leaves the airport as inconspicuously as possible.
Miles is waiting for him at his New York penthouse with a big ass sign and balloons and a vegan fucking cake with a rainbow F1 car stenciled onto it and a brand new bowtie for Roscoe that’s got pride flags all over it and it’s actually totally cute but the point is that it’s all too much. He wants to stop thinking about it. There’s confetti. Fuck.
“Biodegradable,” says Miles. “With wildflower seeds in it.”
“Gonna biodegrade your ass,” says Lewis. “Fuck.”
Roscoe is unimpressed by the decorations and waddles off to sleep. Lewis envies him so, so much.
“You at least want some cake?” asks Miles. “Chill today, eat some cake, watch Drag Race maybe …?”
“No,” says Lewis. “Cake, yes. Later. I’m not your big gay stereotype, Miles.”
“I like that show!”
“I know you do.” Lewis abandons his bags in the foyer, heading to the bedroom. Miles follows like he always does.
“Why are you even doing this, man?” Lewis asks once they’re settled in his mountains of pillows, National Geographic up on the TV. “You already knew I was gay. Is it supposed to be some sort of, like, coming out party or something?”
“Nah,” says Miles. “Just figured you might want someone to make it a big deal in a good way.”
Lewis’s eyes are stinging.
He nestles further into the pile of bedding, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes. “Fuck,” he says.
“Yep,” says Miles. “Word of the day, innit.”
“It’s not a big deal if a fashion designer’s gay,” says Lewis, muffled into his pillows.
“No, it’s not. We’re gonna walk into the shoot tomorrow and everyone’s gonna be like, Lewis, who is this news to? Who in the world didn’t know?”
“Maybe,” says Lewis. “But it is a big deal if an F1 driver’s gay.”
Miles hums, nods, strokes Lewis’s head with one huge ass hand. “Yep. But you got the retired guy, even if he sucks.”
“Ralf. Yeah. He’s annoying as hell.”
“And that one old guy from like the seventies? Didn’t he die of AIDS or something?”
Lewis frowns. “Mike Beuttler?”
“And that one dude from the fifties,” adds Miles. “Mario something. And there was a woman called Lella Lombardi. It’s important to know women’s names, so you’re not, you know. Perpetuating that erasure.”
“Did you do some research?”
Miles grins. “Of course I did, man. I support my homies.”
“Damn,” says Lewis. Then, “GDPA chat’s going crazy. Everyone said something positive. Except Max.”
“Max is the little Belgian white dude?”
Lewis laughs, albeit weakly. “Dutch-Belgian. Races under the Dutch flag, though. How’d you know that?”
“I told you, I read up on things. I also heard online, you know. That he didn’t say anything.”
Lewis looks up at Miles. Miles, frowning, looks down at him.
“He didn’t post anything,” says Miles.
“He texted me,” says Lewis. “He texted me just saying, you came out. Let’s talk. Or whatever.”
“Do you wanna talk to him?”
Lewis shrugs. “Said I was busy. I am busy. We’re shooting tomorrow, Miles, that’s — I don’t know.”
Miles hums, continuing to pet Lewis.
“Guess I just thought he finally learned some respect,” says Lewis. “But he didn’t.”
“You wanna think about something else?” Miles’s voice is soft, warm like diffused lighting. “Don’t let that tiny little white boy mess up your chill time, Lewis.”
“He’s not tiny. He’s taller than me. He’s a big guy.”
Miles laughs. “Tiny to me, though. But he doesn’t matter right now. Does he.”
His voice has dropped somewhere that turns Lewis’s stomach all shivery, like how it is when he’s watching the lights come on one by one.
“He doesn’t matter,” breathes Lewis. “Fuck me, man. Come on already.”
Miles grins. “Words I like to hear.”
Miles undresses him quickly, efficiently, with those big hands. Slides them warm around Lewis’s body, feeling his summer weight and that hard-worn muscle that will never go away. Tracing Lewis’s tattoos. Miles gets him on his back, on the bed, one leg up to put his hole on display. Lewis throws his head back into the thousand-count sheets and tries his best to enjoy it. To melt into the feeling of Miles’s long fingers inside him. Lewis strokes himself idly, getting himself hard as Miles works one, two, three fingers into him.
“You think everyone is thinking about this?” asks Miles, curling his fingers inside Lewis. His voice is smoky, settling onto Lewis’s skin and raising goosebumps there. “About us, together? Now that they know who you are?”
Lewis’s mouth drops open, pleasure coursing through him. “Yeah. Yeah, want them to,” he admits. It’s kind of a nice thought — people, so many people, just stopping. Staring. Telling him all sorts of things, like how sweet he’s being. How proud they are of him.
“When you posted that,” says Miles, “bet you they all started imagining it. All the men started wanting it, now they knew they could have it, hm? Could have you all gorgeous like this?”
Lewis nods, frantic. “Please. Want you in me.”
“I know,” says Miles. “Be right there.” His fingers disappear, and Lewis whines.
Miles keeps talking as he gets a condom, gets it on. “Bet you would like it if we had someone watch, sometime. Let them see how pretty you are.”
“Please,” whispers Lewis as Miles lines himself up. Then — “Please, please, oh please oh please Miles —”
With a grin, Miles bottoms out, pressing Lewis’s legs up and out of the way. “You’re so good, Lewis. The fucking best. You like that?”
“Yeah,” pants Lewis. “You can move, come on, come on.”
Miles moves his hips in slow circles. It’s movement enough to drive Lewis insane without actually giving him anything.
“Now they’re all talking about you,” says Miles. “About how you’re the prettiest bloke in F1, no doubt. About how well you could take it. About how they wish they could have you.” He rubs his beard against Lewis’s leg, a delicious scratch. “They wish they had the balls to do what you’re doing, you know that?”
“Nah.” Lewis squeezes his eyes shut. “Not true.”
“True. You’re fucking brave, Lewis. Admit it."
“I’m not,” whines Lewis.
“No one could’ve done that without being brave.”
“Well,” pants Lewis, “then I wish I wasn’t.”
“But you are,” says Miles. “And everyone fucking wants you.”
With that, he snaps his hips forwards, out and in at an almost punishing pace. Lewis moans, clinging desperately to Mile’s forearms. “Fuck, Miles.”
“You like that, hm?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s what you deserve. Fucker. Sorry, I meant good boy.”
Lewis honest-to-God keens at that.
When they’ve cooled down and redressed, and they’re sitting in the kitchen eating delivered açaí bowls, it comes creeping back to Lewis in a twitchy, uncomfortable way.
You think everyone is thinking about us, together?
Bet you they all started imagining it.
Talking about how well you could take it.
It leaves a bad taste in Lewis’s mouth. Because he knows it’s true — all these reporters and photographers and sponsors and fans are thinking about it. Imagining him in his most intimate moments. Judging that. Writing articles about it. Thinking about how taking it might make him lesser. Weaker. Less capable.
Less worthy.
“You good?” asks Miles.
“Yeah,” says Lewis, swirling his spoon around in his bowl. “Fine. Just thinking about it.”
About a fake name for the delivery so they won’t know where he lives. About walking through that damn airport feeling like a target all over again. About being five, fifteen, twenty-five, thirty, and forty, feeling hunted by their stares. Learning martial arts. Learning meditation. Getting over it, finally, as much as he could, the way that he’s already different. And then going and making himself different all over again.
I think I made the wrong decision.
Lewis swallows. “Let’s go back to bed,” he says.
***
Max gets off a stream late the next afternoon, letting the familiar Team Redline colors ripple on his face as he closes out of the racing program, out of their Discord, out of their website. He’s tired in that good, satisfied way. It means he’s going to sleep well tonight. Calm and settled.
Except that Lewis doesn’t want to talk.
Max stares at the text. No time to talk. Fucking annoying, that. He just … wanted to talk. Congratulate Lewis in person, maybe, look at his face, look at this living proof that coming out doesn’t mean nuking your career anymore, maybe, look at Lewis and see that he’s okay.
And on the other hand, he wanted to talk as in ask. Question. Beg, cosmically, to understand how it is that Lewis can have a job and a dog and a whole lot of real estate and a knighthood and a fashion collection and a nonalcoholic distillery and a dad and a mum and a stepmum and brothers and sisters and friends. And they didn’t take any of that away from him when he came out.
They would for Max. Surely.
Max has thought about this, time and time again, and he continues to think about it as he microwaves his leftover ramen and cuts up some spring onion to put in it because it makes it so much better. He thinks about it as he holds the cats away from his bowl, as he eats, as he washes his dish and chopsticks and his hands and trudges off to his bedroom.
Max is abrasive. Lewis is charming. But then, Lewis has had to be, to account for all the rest of the hate he gets.
Max is awkward. Lewis is smooth. But Lewis must be used to speaking up, where Max has been able to just kind of hide.
Max is ugly. Lewis is beautiful. But Max has seen photos of Lewis from 2007ish, and knows that much effort has gone into that.
So if Max comes out as gay, everyone will hate him. They already hate him. They’ll use it as an excuse to say mean things about himself, his father. Red Bull won’t support him — Christian always made sure he knew he’d be on his own if he came out. And Ferrari seems to be supporting Lewis just fine.
The worst thing, though — if Max comes out, he’ll be disowned.
No nuance. Full stop. Uninvited to Christmas. No more of his dad’s connections. And Lewis’s dad still comes to the races. Even though his son is forty.
Max paces around his room. He, objectively, is worse than Lewis. Not at driving necessarily, but at most other things. He’s abrasive, awkward, ugly, and scared. And he’s never tried to change that. But —
But it’s still not fair.
Fuck it, thinks Max, grabbing clean skinny jeans and a button down. He can change. He can. He can be good and perfect at least for a little bit, so that if — when — he comes out, at the very least he won’t lose his job. Right?
He opens his texts to Lewis again. it will be ok, he sends. Mostly because he just wants to hear it. Hear Lewis saying it back to him.
Then he heads out the door. There’s a gay bar very close to his apartment that he’s actually never been to. He’s going to go in, be charming, buy a hot man a drink, be smooth, be beautiful. Be less scared. And if he pussies out, fucking do it tomorrow. Again and again until he’s good at it.
It will be okay.
***
Lewis steps off set for a quick dinner at his favorite salad place in New York when he gets another text. From Max.
it will be ok
He stares at it.
“You good?” asks Miles, walking by his side. “Oh, watch out, puddle.” He grabs Lewis’s hand, pulling him out of the way.
“Thanks,” says Lewis, swinging their joined hands. “Just got a text.”
“Who from?”
Lewis swallows. “Max,” he says.
“What did he say?” asks Miles. It’s hot out, sunny, and the concrete is baking beneath them. It makes it quite difficult to look up at Miles with how bright the sky is, even though the sun is going down. Lewis squints, wishing he brought his shades. Everywhere they go, people are looking at them. Stares and photographs, and really, Lewis thought they’d be a bit more anonymous in New York of all places, but probably not. It might be Miles’s height. But it might not be.
“He says it’s gonna be okay.”
Miles raises an eyebrow. “That’s what he said?”
“Here, read it,” says Lewis, shoving his phone at Miles. He’s tired of dealing with this.
“It will be okay,” reads Miles. “Damn. Thought he was homophobic.”
“I don’t know and I don’t care, to be honest,” says Lewis. “I’m tired. I want a fucking salad. Couple of dudes with cameras following us, did you notice?”
“We’re hot shit,” says Miles, smiling. “Famous designer and his model assistant, out for a stroll in the Big Apple. Normal.”
“Shut it,” says Lewis, but Miles’s teasing does make him feel a tiny bit better.
I don’t think I can do this, thinks Lewis, upon noticing that his favorite salad place has added a menu item that’s like a rainbow salad with a Pride-themed name. He orders it anyway. The owner comes out and offers to rename it after him, and he declines. Yeah can I get a Gay Lewis Hamilton, add tofu, no sunflower seeds please. Could you imagine? Insufferable. He can’t fucking do this.
I don’t think I can do this, thinks Lewis, returning to set with Miles to shoot the night shots. The models are chill and so are the photographers, and no one asks him about his sex life. No one cares. He takes his phone off silent for two minutes and immediately gets a million notifications about how he likes guys. He’s forgetting why he did this. He was all set to have a few good years at Ferrari and then coast off into the sunset, and he had to go and ruin it.
I don’t think I can do this, thinks Lewis, in his big soft bed with his big soft friend-with-benefits Miles beside him. They have sex and it gets a little weepy, and instead of going again like they often do, Miles draws Lewis a lavender-scented bath. Lewis tries very hard not to think about how the whole world is probably guessing about this, talking about this, owning some little piece of this. His sexuality. The things he does at his most intimate, as his barest self. Why did he let them all know? Why did he let them all see?
For the kids, right? Representation matters? Right?
Later, in bed, he opens his texts again. it will be ok, wrote Max. What would he know? How could he possibly know what Lewis is feeling, right now? What Lewis has brought upon himself?
it will be ok
He gets out of bed and calls his dad.
“Lewis?”
“Daddy,” he says, collapsing into tears.
“Oh, Lewis.”
He’s crying too hard to speak. He’s crying too hard to breathe, actually, or to recognize Roscoe until he’s all up in Lewis’s face.
“Lulu. Can you hear me?”
Lewis sniffles, dries his tears in Roscoe’s fur. “I can hear you,” he says, his voice thick with tears.
“It’s going to be okay.”
But is it?
***
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Max locks his phone.
There is a man in bed beside him. Sleeping, with long locs spread out across the pillow. He had liked the drink Max had bought him, smiled and toyed with Max’s fingers as they leaned against the bar together. Max had whispered his name — his real name — against his lips. The man had smiled and said his right back. Javier. On vacation in Monaco. At home he has a girlfriend, a family who will never understand. All the same as before, but for the fact they’re at Max’s place, using real names.
Lewis is making headlines for holding hands with his friend. They’re not even negative headlines. It’s not news in the slightest. Max doesn’t get it.
If Max and Javier went out and held hands right now, probably only one measly tabloid would notice. And his dad would read it and poof, there goes his family. And then Nicos Rosberg and Hülkenberg would probably both call and have things to say. Nice things, maybe, but definitely uncomfortable things. Hülkenberg would try and give him the sex talk. In German, to add to the parent-factor. Even though Max is twenty-seven and doesn’t need it. And then Rosberg would say something both cryptic and catty about Max’s fashion sense. And no one else in the paddock would actually believe it, that he was gay. They would think it was for PR.
And then he would lose his job.
“Max?”
Max startles, fumbling his phone out of his hands. Javier is awake, one warm hand on Max’s bare thigh.
Max clears his throat. “Yeah?”
“You seem stressed.” He has an accent that, he told Max, is the product of being a Caribbean immigrant to Montreal. Interesting, but not what Max wants to hear right now. What does Max want to hear right now?
“Sorry,” says Max. “Work stuff, they — just work stuff.”
“Come lay down again.” Javier’s voice is soft with sleep, coaxing. “We could go another round, no? Leave the work until morning when I am gone.”
Max hesitates. Javier’s hand rubs small circles into Max’s skin. It feels like having a boyfriend, stupidly. Max isn’t used to it. Has never let himself be used to it.
“Okay,” he says, and lays back down.
He falls asleep. When he wakes up, the sun is up, and his phone is ringing. Javier is gone, but he left a note.
With his number on it. Call me! Little drawing of an old-fashioned rotary phone. Max feels like he’s going to be sick. The feeling arrives to suddenly and violently quell a little wave of fond happiness that had occurred before it. But the phone is still ringing, so Max puts his feelings aside — all of them — and answers it.
It’s his PR rep. And she is not happy with him in the slightest.
“I’m sorry,” says Max. “I’m sorry, I just woke up. Is it because of Javier?”
“Who is Javier?”
“Or the French guy?” Or who I am as a person? As a gay person?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” snaps the PR person. “You’re in serious trouble, Max. I didn’t think we would have to tell you to say something supporting Hamilton, but clearly we did. Even Yuki said something, Max. Even Alonso. Do you know how bad this makes you look?”
“Because I didn’t — I didn’t make an instagram post?” Max is scrambling now, out of bed and searching for some actual pants or something because this is not a pajamas conversation anymore. “About Lewis? I texted him!”
“No one online knows that!”
Max groans, struggling into jeans. “So what? What do I do? I mean, I’m not —”
“Homophobic?” Her voice is annoying him. That word is annoying him. “Red Bull’s PR department knows you’re not homophobic, Max. But does the world know that?”
“Fuck,” says Max, and then, “Sorry.” He mutes himself, takes a deep breath, and screams “Fuck!” at the top of his lungs. “Fuck, shit, motherfucker. I’m not fucking homophobic, I’m actually gay, what the fuck, mate.”
Jimmy, on the floor in front of him, looks at him as if to say, But does the world know that?
Max sighs. Then, he unmutes himself. “Sorry,” he says.
“That’s alright, Max,” she says.
“So, is it just — do I just make the post now, or —?”
“No. That will make it look inorganic, like you’re only saying something now because everyone else does. We’ll make it look organic.”
“How?”
“Do you have plans for the rest of the break?”
Max looks around his empty apartment. He was planning on hooking up more. Working on his social skills, that sort of thing. Streaming with Team Redline. But — “Not really. But if you want me to go somewhere I need some time to arrange for the cats to be taken care of and stuff.”
“We can work with that, Max. You’ll be emailed with the information in a day or so. For now, focus on getting care for your cats starting at the end of this week.”
“For how long?”
No answer. She fucking hung up on him.
Max sighs, opening his phone. There are more headlines about Lewis, now, negative ones as well as positive. Interestingly, it’s not all because he’s gay. Now they’re calling him a slut for holding hands with the fencer and then hugging a model at his shoot in New York or something. One site is even insinuating he has HIV, which … that’s … absolutely disgusting to read. And, like. Max is, generally speaking, stupid. And even he thought to get a PrEP prescription, so. Surely Lewis — Max doesn’t want to think about this. He’s just as bad as all these fucking tabloids, except for him, it’s worse. He’s speculating on someone he knows and respects.
Someone who hasn’t texted him back.
it will be ok
Max sighs. Maybe it was too forward? Maybe he should send something else, like —
i am of course very happy for your coming out lewis
i am sorry i did not say anything in the chat
or on insta i forgot
but i am so sorry i am so sorry lewis
maybe we can talk about it
if you want
***
At Lewis’s meeting the next day, the rep from Dior is just about bouncing out of his seat.
“So, we got this incredible offer last night,” he says. “We were contacted by an F1 team, actually, so there’s your expertise, Lewis, about, um, using the Dior and Lewis Hamilton collection Blade sneakers for their two drivers, sort of as a sponsored uniform thing. It would bring in visibility and refresh the brand, as well as bringing in a lot of profit.”
Lewis frowns. “What team?” Surely not Mercedes, they have the adidas sponsor now, and couldn’t be Ferrari either, or he would already know. So —
“Red Bull,” says the Dior rep.
“Woah,” says Miles, kicking back in his chair.
Lewis says, “What?”
“Yeah, Red Bull,” says the rep. “They want to revitalize the brand, reshape the image, sort of, you know, freshen up. Of course, they did have a condition. For you, Lewis.”
He slides a piece of paper across the table to Lewis.
Lewis takes it, casting a glance at the legal rep, at Miles, at the other designers.
There’s only one condition. That Lewis go on an all expense paid vacation? To … Mykonos? Trashy, but okay. With Max Verstappen. That makes fucking sense.
The Dior rep is raising his eyebrows expectantly. Miles, who’s been reading over Lewis’s shoulder, is making his holy-shit-that’s-so-funny face. Everyone else looks awkward.
Lewis says, “Uh …”
“You don’t want to go on the vacation?” asks the rep.
“Well, I —” This is awkward. How should he explain? “They only want me there to make him look better.”
Blank stares.
“That’s too funny, I’m sorry,” mutters Miles. “That’s crazy. Shoe deal for a beach vacation? That’s what I’d call a charmed life, right there.”
“I don’t know,” says Lewis. “It’s — I came out recently, and Max is the only driver who didn’t support me publicly, so I guess they’re forcing him to. So I don’t really want to. You know.”
“Wait, you came out?” The rep looks confused. “As in, they didn’t already … know? Sorry, I’m sorry, that’s rude, just …”
“No, you’re right,” says Lewis, tiredly. “Sports, man. No one expects it.”
“I still think it would be a good idea,” says the rep. “We kind of need to push our image up a little bit, if you catch my drift. And hey — worst comes to worst, you take a ton of social media pics the first day, then ditch him in Mykonos and have fun.”
“I say go for it,” says Miles. “Like the man said. Have fun, Lewis.”
“Gay fun,” adds the rep. “Mykonos is, like, very, very gay. Gay hotspot. Perfect to celebrate a big coming out or something. Since apparently you needed to do that.”
Lewis sighs. “Fine. Fine, I guess. Make them take accessories, too, not just shoes.”
“Perfect,” says the rep. “We’ll get it in writing, but you had better start packing!”
For one horrible second, Lewis can see himself, in perfect clarity, on some twisted reality show. He pushes it aside and gets up. Fucking Mykonos. He hasn’t even been nurturing his abs, this summer. They probably won’t even show if he’s shirtless. He had better get a few beach shirts, just in case.
***
Max meets Lewis in the hotel lobby. He has those ugly silver shoes strapped to his feet, and a Dior and Lewis Hamilton luggage tag on his bag. According to the website, it was supposed to be four hundred dollars, but they just gave it to him for free.
Lewis shows up looking breezy but with giant bags under his eyes. He has three suitcases, but no dog carrier.
“No Roscoe?” is the first thing Max says to Lewis.
“Nah,” says Lewis. “Beach isn’t so safe for him. No cats?”
Max looks at him. “Are you joking?”
Lewis laughs. “Fair enough. Let’s see the room.”
“You of course mean ‘rooms,’ right? Plural?”
Lewis looks at him sideways. “What, you can’t stand to sleep in the same room as me or something? I’m not gonna molest you in your sleep, Max, promise.”
“I didn’t mean —”
Lewis turns on his heel and stalks off towards the elevator, hauling his bags behind him. Max stares at his back. An awful feeling uncurls in the pit of his stomach. He really didn’t mean that. Of course he didn’t.
Nothing to do except follow, he guesses.
There are two beds. That’s good. Lewis has claimed the one by the window when Max gets to the room, which means Max has to take the other one, which is fine. Lewis stands right in front of the window to change his shirt. He stares at Max as he does so, like, You scared? You scared?
“I’m sorry, mate,” begins Max.
“Don’t wanna hear it,” says Lewis. He opens the window — it’s actually French doors, and there’s a balcony beyond overlooking a lively beach. “I get it. You don’t like gay people, you don’t like me, whatever, your team needs to make you look good. I get it. So let’s just take our photos, have dinner or swim or whatever, and be done.”
“That’s not —”
“Don’t wanna hear it.” Lewis is changing his shorts, now. Max averts his eyes, feeling strangely like he’s back sharing rooms with other fourteen-year-olds, not knowing what’s happening to him or why he feels so hot when they change in front of him. His hands are shaking, he realizes, exactly like they used to back then. Fuck. If only he could say something, could convince Lewis that they’re — the same, essentially, that who they are is one and the same. If only Lewis could see.
“I’ll be in the pool,” says Lewis. “Find me when you’re ready. If you wear Speedos, no you don’t. You’ll wear my trunks for photos instead.”
“They would not fit me,” says Max. “But I of course wear trunks also.”
“Cool,” says Lewis. “Don’t care.”
He has the decency to at least not slam the door behind him.
Max sits on his bed. Outside, he can hear people laughing, talking, yelling, even singing. Mostly men. The waves lap onto the shore, and a volleyball net clinks and flaps in the breeze. Seagulls cry, circling above the beach. It sounds lovely, really.
He stands up. Looks outside. There are men, so many men, hairless and hairy, tattooed and even-tanned. Lots in Speedos. It looks like a postcard from the seventies, maybe, warm colors and handlebar mustaches, beach games and striped towels and men holding hands. So many men holding hands.
Max goes and locks himself in the bathroom to call his dad.
***
Lewis has downed a Shirley Temple and a half, signed one autograph, taken three selfies and deflected about seven attempts at cruising by the time Max comes down. His swim trunks are cute, with little cats all over. His hair is fucked up like he’s been trying to tear it out, and his eyes are red. There are still tear tracks on his face, for God’s sake.
“Okay, you don’t need to feel that bad,” says Lewis. “I get it. We can work it out. It’s okay.”
“What?” says Max, faintly, sliding into the pool beside Lewis. He’s holding some sort of drink with a lemon in it. Lewis eyes it, and Max must notice, because he says, “Oh, it’s iced tea with honey. Herbal.”
“That’s good,” says Lewis.
Honestly, it’s a pretty nice pool. It’s up on a ledge, almost, overlooking the beach proper, with loungers and chairs strewn about. There’s an expanse of grass on one side where people have laid towels to rest on, shaded by a few gnarled old trees. On the other side is the little bar where they got their drinks. Red Bull must have really splashed out to afford this, especially for something as inane as a PR stunt, which makes Lewis feel even worse. About himself. And the fact that he agreed to this. And the conversation he’s about to have with Max.
“I mean, you don’t have to feel too bad about being uncomfortable,” says Lewis. “I understand. Lots of straight guys are uncomfortable being around gay guys. But you need to pull it together enough to have something to give your PR folks, because this is all for you. To save your image. Understand?”
“Oh,” says Max, shifting in the water. His movement creates little waves that lap at Lewis’s skin. “That’s not — I am not uncomfortable. With you being gay.”
He swallows. He looks rough, actually, in this pathetic kind of way that really tugs at Lewis’s heartstrings. Like a kicked puppy, or something.
“You look like you’ve been crying,” Lewis points out, keeping his voice as gentle as possible. “I understand if I’ve given you, you know, something new to think about. If that’s hard for you. But, man, you gotta work that out on your own time. You can’t —”
“I called my dad.” Now Max just sounds confused. “I — I was crying because I called my dad, I call him often, and sometimes he does not have anything nice to say. That’s all. It is of course not you, I promise. I am — very comfortable with gay people, actually. I live right near a gay bar, in Monaco.”
“Oh,” says Lewis. “So — you didn’t post anything. Or say anything, really. Anything normal.”
“I forgot,” says Max.
Lewis lets that sit for a while. The water is perfectly cerulean, and at the other end of the pool, a couple of young men are throwing a ball around. It looks fun. Max doesn’t look like he’s lying, not even a little bit.
“You forgot,” says Lewis.
“Yes,” says Max. “I forgot to make a post, because I wanted to text you personally. But I got scared, and kept rewriting it.”
Lewis eyes him. “Sure,” he says. “We should take some photos now.”
***
It all comes to a head that evening at dinner, when the majority of their photos have been taken.
They get a table in the hotel’s restaurant, which is on the beach. It’s absolutely crowded. There’s a mix of swimsuits and smart casual attire, sunglasses dangling from necklines and nestled in hair. The drinks are neon and the music is thumping, loud like the music in Monaco clubs.
Lewis looks ethereal in the restaurant’s blue lights. Ethereal and tired. Max watches him flick through the photos they took — in the pool, on the beach, at the bar, in a little gift shop they found posing with the silly shot glasses. They’re both good at smiling for the cameras. Lewis is better at it than Max, but he isn’t smiling now.
“You gonna be okay sleeping in the same room?” asks Lewis. He sounds drained and a little mad.
Max looks down at his place setting. Their food hasn’t come yet, but he doesn’t feel hungry. Just nervous. “I will be fine,” he says. “I told you, it does not bother me at all.”
“Really,” says Lewis. “See, I’m having a hard time believing that. Because I know you saw the news when it came out, saw the post, saw the group chat, saw everyone else’s post, but you couldn’t stand to take five minutes and post something of your own? Not even to repost anyone else’s? That does not make it seem like you’re unbothered by gay people. By me. It makes you seem like a huge asshole who has a problem. And you haven’t really shown me anything that changes that. So.”
“I am sorry,” says Max. His eyes are aching, and he scrubs at them furiously, trying to stifle the tears that waver precariously on his waterlines. The music in this restaurant is too loud. At the bar, someone — some man — is kissing another man, right in the open. Spilling an ostentatiously pink drink down the front of his shirt.
“Cuz I don’t really wanna sleep in the same room as a homophobe,” says Lewis. “So, you know. It’s not an issue if you’re gonna be weird. We’ll just go and get another room. We can afford it.”
“I’m not a homophobe,” says Max. “I like gay people.”
“So why’d you wait so long to text me, then? Hm? What could you possibly have been doing that would have prevented you from sending a quick message in the chat or something?”
Max swallows. The men at the bar are petting each others’ faces. One of them has a pierced ear. One look at them and you’d know.
But then again, Max has always been good at knowing.
On the street. In a club. On the apps, who’s for real and who’s just bicurious, doesn’t know how to top safely and doesn’t even want to think about bottoming. Max can tell. So he doesn’t give the wrong person the wrong look. So he doesn’t get himself beat up or found out. So he can feel the touch of another body against his without having to give his name away. His life, his career away. Max knows. He’s good at knowing. He’s fucking had to be.
“I was hooking up,” says Max.
“Oh my fucking God,” says Lewis. He looks incredulous, fingers drumming anxiously on the sweating glass of water in front of him. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“No,” says Max, feeling the tears start to fall. “I am of course not kidding. I would not lie to you about this, Lewis.”
“Shit,” says Lewis. “It’s okay, man, you don’t have to cry. People have, uh, different priorities, I guess.” He laughs. High and hysterical. Takes a sip of water. “Was she at least good? Please tell me it was mind-blowing and not just mediocre. I was worrying about what you thought. Was she worth it?”
“How come you can’t tell?” cries Max.
“What?” Lewis sounds confused.
Max can’t answer. He’s crying too hard, so that it aches in his throat and the back of his head, so that his vision swims and his hearing flutters. Maybe he ought to get an ear pierced. Wear more pink, or Speedos, or flop his hands around as he talks. He already wears skinny jeans. He’d thought that was enough. Why can’t Lewis tell? Why doesn’t Lewis know?
“You okay?” asks Lewis. “Was it … was it not good?”
“It was good,” sobs Max, putting his head down on the table. “It was two people. First was a French guy, I do not know his name, but he has two kids called Hugo and Lucie and they were away at the seaside. Next it was a man named Javier, who is Caribbean and Canadian and he left me his number but I never texted him. And I thought you would be able to know.”
“Oh,” says Lewis. “Oh, shit. So you’re —?”
Distantly, Max is aware that maybe the waiter is standing a respectful distance away from the table, waiting for Max to finish crying so he can serve their food. And maybe the men at the bar are casting them glances, arms around each other, leather boots entwined with rope sandals. Max doesn’t want to say it.
“I have to go,” says Max.
“Okay,” says Lewis, looking worried.
So Max goes. He stumbles out of the restaurant with stinging eyes, out onto the beach where the sun is almost all the way down and the purple sky mixes with the twinkling lights of boats out on the water, making one smudged, sparkling mess. There are still people on the sand, soaking up the last of the warmth of the day. Max dodges towels and umbrellas, stray beach balls and the shapes of vacationers lying tangled in each other. He’s headed for the water. It’s dark, but lit up still by the boats.
Eventually he makes it there, and sits down to slip his shoes off so he can dig his feet into the warm sand. The line of the water washes just barely up to his toes. It’s nice, and he’s not crying anymore. It almost feels like a regular vacation.
To his right, rocks rise from the sand, growing to a craggy point where scrub brush grows. The rocks cast long, faint shadows in the fading light.
To his left, a couple sits together with their feet in the sand just like him. Two men, one balding and one with shaggy hair all down his back. Leaning into each other. Watching the boats and the sunset, and being together.
Max thinks of Javier, but the image won’t stay in his mind. He gives up, choosing instead to stare out across the darkening sea. Eventually, his phone buzzes. It’s Lewis.
You good?
Sorry man. Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable
I’ll let you have the room if you need, just come back
Max?
It’s getting dark
Max doesn’t answer. Thinking about going back to that room, thinking about the two beds and the balcony, is making him feel strangely like he has to cry some more. Even though he must be absolutely dehydrated, by now. He just sits and lets the water cool him down.
***
“Dad,” says Lewis, “I think I upset someone and I don’t know what to do.”
“What happened, Lewis?”
Lewis sighs, looking out through the open French doors of the hotel room to the beach. The sun is down and the sky is black, and Max still isn’t back yet. The covers on his bed are untouched, except for faint wrinkles where he must have been sitting earlier. Lewis looks at it. Max’s bag is unpacked, too. It’s hard to tell he was ever there.
“I made someone tell me something,” begins Lewis. “I don’t think he wanted to tell me. But we’re — we’re in Mykonos — we’re sharing a room —”
“You’re in Mykonos?”
“Yes, Dad. On vacation. But he ran off, and it’s night. I don’t know what to do.”
His dad doesn’t respond for a bit. In the background, Lewis can hear the sounds of the house — the A/C running, the TV on, Linda’s laughter. He thinks about going back there.
They kept the furniture from the old house, the big old couch that Lewis used to love, and got some new furniture, too. Now there’s separate bedrooms for everyone, and a guest bedroom, and cabinets in the bathroom with room enough for everyone’s things when they visit. Lewis could go. It would be easy. Go and hide under the covers, in the house that’s not quite home but close to it.
But Lewis can’t just leave. He chose this. Chose to come out to the world.
Max hadn’t even chosen to come out to one person.
“Does he have his key?” asks his dad.
“Yeah,” says Lewis. “He knows — he’s good with directions. I don’t think he’s lost. But I still want him to come back, you know? All his things are here.”
“You remember when you were fourteen, fifteen, and you used to sneak out?”
“I remember, Dad.” Lewis does remember. There wasn’t really anywhere to go in Stevenage besides the woods and the twenty-four hour convenience shop, in those days. So he’d go and buy a stick of gum or something like that, something stupid and small, and have it in the woods, and come back once he got cold or bored. And his dad would be up, waiting at the kitchen table, pissed as hell. But there would always be a cuppa waiting for him, so. It evened out.
“There was nothing I could do,” says his dad, “except wait for you. No way to track you down. I didn’t know in my mind that you were coming back. I was always thinking about calling the authorities if you weren’t back by sunup. But in my heart I knew you’d come back to me.”
“Right,” says Lewis. “So just wait for him?”
“Just wait. And sleep if you need to. He’ll be back.”
“Okay,” says Lewis. Horridly, he can hear the panic in his own voice. It’s just Max. Weird, obnoxious, possibly gay Max. He shouldn’t matter this much to Lewis. He never has before.
“Try not to worry, Lulu.”
Lewis tries not to worry. He really does. But he goes down to the hotel lobby to get two cups of tea, and he paces around the room, listening for Max’s voice in the sounds of the beach below him. He doesn’t hear it. No matter how hard he tries.
***
Max does not remember reading anything by Homer when he was actually in school, but he has seen that quote about the rosy fingers of dawn on Twitter like a million times by now, and he has to admit there’s no better word for the beginnings of a sunrise than rosy fingers. Stretching, reaching across the sky, across the dark shapes of birds and across the solemn, sleeping trees. Reaching around Max. Illuminating one half of him and casting the rest in shadow as he stumbles across the beach, carrying his shoes and aching with the chill of spending an entire night outside.
Their room is cool when he slips in, washed with that same rosy light, but it isn’t empty. Lewis is there, huddled on his bed, scrolling through his phone.
“Max!” His voice, usually so smooth, is hoarse with tiredness as he hops off the bed. “Where the hell were you, man?”
Max shrugs, dropping his shoes with a soft clatter. “On the beach, I guess. Sorry if I scared you.”
“Nah, you’re —” Lewis stops just short of Max, raising his arms in an aborted little movement that looks like the beginning of a hug. His head is tilted up as he looks at Max. It’s odd. Max forgets how much shorter Lewis is than him. Lewis usually acts like he’s taller.
Then again, Max usually isn’t this close to Lewis. Close enough to see the near-blackness, the sparkle of his deep brown eyes.
“Sorry,” breathes Max.
“You’re good,” says Lewis.
It echoes in Max’s bones. You’re good. You’re good.
“You want a hug or something?” Lewis asks, opening his arms.
Max nods. “Please,” he says, and fuck, he’s about to cry again. Why is he about to cry again? He’s dehydrated. But it doesn’t matter, because now he’s in Lewis’s arms and Lewis is pulling them onto one of the beds, holding him close and warm and safe.
“You alright?” asks Lewis.
“I don’t know,” says Max, burying his face in Lewis’s shoulder. “I don’t know. I want to be.”
“You wanna talk about it?”
“I don’t know!”
“Okay, baby.” One of Lewis’s hands rubs warm, calming circles into Max’s back. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Now Max is crying again, truly, properly. Getting Lewis’s hoodie all wet. “I want — I want to tell you,” he sobs. “I want to tell you something I have never told. Anyone. Not really, not out loud.”
“Yeah?” Lewis’s voice is gentle. And to think Max used to find that voice horribly annoying. Now he wants to swim in it.
“Yeah,” he says, sniffling. “I want to tell you.”
“What do you want to tell me, baby?” Baby. Max doesn’t know where that came from, but it’s nice.
“Lewis,” he says, wincing at how his tired voice grates in his own ears. “Lewis, I’m gay.”
And then he flinches, fingers curling in the fabric of Lewis’s hoodie like he’s bracing himself to be ripped away from Lewis. He’s shaking. His ears are ringing, and his skin feels like it’s on fire. He can feel his heart beating in his stomach and his throat. Loud and uncomfortable. Like it wants to tear loose from his body and dive into Lewis’s — someone who would know what to do with it.
Lewis’s hand does not stop moving, making slow circles on Max’s shivering back.
“You’re alright,” Lewis is saying. “You’re all good, Max, you’re okay. Thank you for telling me. It’s a big thing.”
“Didn’t seem like it for you,” mumbles Max.
Lewis laughs, sardonic and tired. “I’m sure it didn’t seem that way,” he says. “But it was a big deal. All I ate was ice cream for, like, two whole days. Kept calling my dad just to cry on the phone. I get it, Max. It’s a damn hard thing to do.”
“Oh,” says Max.
“Yeah,” says Lewis. “You wanna go find some breakfast or something? You look like you need it.”
“No,” says Max. “I would actually rather stay in the room for a bit longer.”
“Okay,” says Lewis. “We can do that. Did you wanna do anything in particular, or?”
Max shrugs, rolling off and onto the bed. He feels hollow. Like he cried everything out and now he’s nothing.
“Okay,” says Lewis. “Do you want — some water? No? Watch TV? Oh, there’s no TV in this room. I can get it on my laptop.”
“No,” says Max, weakly.
Can you hold me again?
No. He can’t ask for that. He’s already burdened Lewis enough.
Lewis shifts up onto his side, looking down at Max where he’s sprawled on the bed. His dark eyes search Max’s. “You don’t know what you wanna do,” he says.
Max shakes his head.
“Okay,” says Lewis. “Would you mind if I — if I tried something?”
Max’s heart leaps into his throat. “Please,” he whispers, struggling to speak around the lump that is his heart.
Lewis smiles. “Okay,” he whispers.
He leans down and kisses Max. His lips are soft and warm, and his beard is scratchy against Max’s own stubble. It’s gentle for a moment, tame. Nice. And then, with a faint sound that feels torn from his chest, Max opens his mouth and lets Lewis’s tongue into him.
***
It’s kind of funny, really, how yesterday, Lewis was convinced that this boy resented him for being gay, and now they’re in bed together, kissing like the world will end tomorrow. Max is warm beneath him, pliant and soft. He makes a little noise when Lewis tugs at the bottom of his shirt, a little noise like he’s breaking apart.
“Is this okay?” asks Lewis.
Max nods, the sweetest blush covering his cheeks and neck. “Please.”
“Good,” says Lewis, smiling, as he strips Max out of his clothing. It smells like the beach. The image of Max, curled up somewhere on the sand, swims in Lewis’s vision, and a sudden pang of protectiveness echoes through him. How could he have let this boy sleep on the beach when there are two comfortable beds right here?
“Are you going to fuck me?” asks Max.
“I don’t know,” says Lewis, shuffling off the bed to go dig his lube out of his suitcase. Of course he brought it, even though he thought this was just going to be some boring PR trip. It’s still Mykonos. “Do you want me to fuck you, baby?”
“Eh,” says Max. One hand is brushing slowly through his hair, an obvious act of self-soothing. The other traces small circles on his pale chest, brushing slowly across soft little tits and dusky nipples. The movement would seem unconscious, except for the slight tilt to Max’s mouth, the flick of his eyes that tell Lewis he’s trying to be seductive. That he’s done this before.
“You could fuck me,” says Lewis, climbing back onto the bed. “I usually bottom, wouldn’t be a problem.”
“Do you fuck the fencer?” asks Max.
“Who, Miles?” Lewis busies himself with stripping out of his own clothes. “Yeah, I do, but it’s not like that. A relationship, or anything. We’re just friends.”
“Oh,” says Max. “I would not mind if you were together. I fuck a lot of taken men.”
Lewis blinks. “Why?”
“Because they’re desperate enough to want me. I am of course not very special looking, and only decent in bed. I thought you should know.”
He looks painfully earnest, those blue eyes shining with something between self-hatred and need.
Lewis winces. “You’re gorgeous, Max, you really are. Here, do you want to prep me?”
He shoves the lube into Max’s hands, arranging the two of them so they’re on their sides. Lewis hikes one leg over Max’s plush hip, guiding Max’s hand between their legs to his hole.
The first press of Max’s wet fingers is just as sweet and shy as the rest of him has been. “I do not know about that,” Max says. “About me being gorgeous. Maybe I am nice to look at, I have muscles and all, but I say weird shit in bed. I try not to, but …”
“What kind of weird shit?” Lewis asks. Max pushes his finger further in, and Lewis bites his lip, holding back a contented moan.
“I just like to call them something,” mumbles Max. “I try not to. I, I won’t. With you.”
He pushes a second finger in, and this time, Lewis really does moan. “That’s good, Max. But what — what do you call them? Promise I won’t get freaked out.”
“It is really bad,” says Max. His flush extends to his chest, and his lips are red where the both of them have been biting.
Lewis thinks about what he knows about Max. “You know what, baby? I just want you to say it. When you want to. Just call me that, because I think I know what you want, and I want it, too.”
“You sure?” Max looks at Lewis through long, pale lashes, right as he slides a third finger inside.
“Yeah,” moans Lewis. “Yeah, yeah, Max, baby. It’s perfect. You know you’re perfect for me, baby boy.”
“Fuck.” Max’s pupils are blown as he stares at Lewis. “Can I be inside you? Can I?”
“Yeah,” pants Lewis. “Fuck, okay. Let me —”
There’s some fumbling as Lewis helps Max with the condom, then gets them where he wants them — Max on his back, propped up by the pillows, with Lewis straddling him. Max’s callused hands on Lewis’s waist. Lewis reaches behind himself and grabs Max’s dick. Strokes it in slick hands. He leans forward to kiss Max’s forehead, noticing the way his lashes flutter shut at the brush of Lewis’s lips.
“You wanna fuck me?” asks Lewis, his voice low. God, he’s so fucking hard. Hard and leaking, but he holds off from touching himself. He wants Max inside of him first.
“Yeah,” whimpers Max. “Please.”
“Please, what?”
Max’s eyes are glassy, his mouth red and open. “Please, daddy. Please let me fuck you. I need it so bad, daddy.”
So that’s the name that’s apparently so bad. Lewis called it. Right on the money. “Good boy, Max, asking for what you need. Daddy will take care of you now.”
With that, he pushes himself down on Max’s cock, breathing deep so the slide is easier. His mouth drops open as he bottoms out. Fuck, it’s so good. He braces himself with one hand on Max’s chest, letting the other drop to his own dick.
Max whines wordlessly, and Lewis smiles to himself, beginning to move. To fuck himself on Max’s gorgeous cock. It’s so good, dragging against all the right places inside of him. Hot and hard and perfectly sized. He loses himself in the filthy sound of skin against skin. It doesn’t escape him that the French doors are open, that people on the beach below can probably hear. He hopes they hear it all. Max’s little whines, his own moans. The desperate, slick sounds of their bodies moving together. Chasing the same pleasure that everyone on this beach knows.
“Daddy?” Max’s voice is hoarse, rough and needy.
Lewis opens his eyes, unsure of when he closed them. “Yeah, Max?”
“I thought about it,” pants Max, one hand fisted in his own hair, tugging so hard his eyes water. “I am sorry, Lewis, daddy, I thought about it.”
“Thought about what, baby?”
“Champagne. On your skin. All over your back, daddy, I —”
“Oh, baby. You wanna get daddy all messy, hm?”
“Before I knew,” Max whines. “I guessed, I thought about it, I thought about you like this when I didn’t get to fucking have you and I am as bad — as bad as all the people online, who wonder —”
“You did nothing wrong,” says Lewis, slowing his movements, letting himself just grind on Max for a moment.
“It must feel bad,” says Max, “to know they think about you like that.”
Lewis nods. “But I like that you do.”
“Really?”
“Yes, baby. Daddy wants you to think about him. And to fuck him. You wanna fuck me?”
“Yeah,” whines Max. “Please.”
Lewis grins, staring down at Max’s pink cheeks, his blue eyes swimming with lovely tears. “Fuck me, then, baby.”
It takes a bit of adjusting, but Lewis makes it to his hands and knees, Max inside of him and draped over his back, as warm as a patch of sunlight. Slowly, Max begins to move again. His hands fumble on Lewis’s back, his thighs, before finding natural rest at his hips.
“Please,” slurs Max, a constant litany. “Please, daddy. Need you.”
“I have you, Maxy,” pants Lewis, frantically stroking himself. “Come on, baby, fuck your daddy. Just like that, come on.”
And then suddenly, he’s coming, his orgasm hitting him out of nowhere. He moans embarrassingly loud, the image of the men on the beach below flashing through his mind before it all goes white.
Panting, he comes back to himself, shivering in overstimulation as Max fucks into him over and over again. “You wanna come for me, Maxy?”
“Yeah, please, wanna come —”
Fuck, that raspy voice is so hot. “You wanna come for daddy, love?”
Max thrusts in just a few more times and then he’s pulling out. Lewis, stifling a whine, hears the slick sounds of him fucking into his fist before he’s showering Lewis’s back in hot, wet stripes. He makes the most lovely moan as he comes. Lewis smiles to himself, knowing Max is thinking of the champagne shower way back when. Watching that pearly white streak the cross on his back, covering the black ink.
Still shaky and sticky, Lewis reaches for Max, pulling him into his arms. “Was it good for you, Max?”
Max nods, his eyes wet. “Thank you,” he whispers.
“Anytime,” says Lewis. He means it. “Anytime.”
***
Over brunch, much later, Lewis turns to Max. “Do you want to talk about it any more? Being out?”
Max considers. The restaurant they’re in is noisy, full of people talking and laughing. And, like most restaurants in this area of Mykonos, it’s full of gay men. Other gay men. Not a bad place to have a conversation, all things considered.
“I am of course not out, Lewis,” says Max.
“You’re not? You told me.”
“But not everyone else.” Max is eating as they talk. They have a really lovely egg and tomato dish that he kind of wants the recipe for. “I still am lying to the rest of the world. I don’t mind that. Telling you does not change that.”
Lewis shrugs, taking a sip of his herbal iced tea. “I suppose,” he says. “It still makes you out in some capacity, though. Because you’re out to me.”
“But the whole world doesn’t know,” says Max. “And I am okay with lying, Lewis. I have done it quite a lot, about this. I can keep lying. I don’t need to be out.”
“The whole world, hm?” Lewis looks at him, raising one eyebrow.
Max nods. “That’s kind of — my PR rep said that. It doesn’t count unless the whole world knows. So I can’t be out, because I don’t want to tell everyone.”
“Well, it doesn’t have to be the whole world,” says Lewis. “I didn’t start with the world. I started with Nico. Then my dad, then Miles.”
Max considers this. “I never really said the words until I told you.”
“Right. But that still means you’re out, Max. Out to me.”
“I guess,” says Max.
“Baby steps,” says Lewis. “Just some things to consider. I’m not saying you have to do what I did. But if you want to, it never hurts to work up to it.”
Later, when they’re heading out to the beach, Max tells Lewis to go ahead of him. “I will meet you,” he says. “I have to make a call, but then I will come.”
“Alright, babe.” Lewis kisses him on the cheek. It’s new, but it doesn’t feel new. It just feels like the way things should be between them. “Good luck.”
Max is going to need it.
But luck or no luck, this is something he’s going to do all the same. His hands are shaking as he dials the number, as the phone rings and rings, and as someone answers. Low stakes, he reminds himself. He’s already out of the house, has his own place, his own income, his own life. He doesn’t need anything else.
But honestly? He wants to have it all.
“Dad,” he says, into the phone. “Hi. There’s something I wanted to tell you.”