the art of saying yes

by manykinsmen

Summary:

It’s the expression that makes Lewis want to kiss him senseless, climb into his lap and coddle him, smother him with affection until he’s smiling again. Maybe if Valtteri was single he’d have done so, but Valtteri’s got plenty of people to do that for him. He doesn’t need Lewis, not the way Lewis needs him.

“Yeah, but—”

“Lewis.” Valtteri’s voice drops, his expression suddenly stern. It makes Lewis feel like a school boy caught doing something he shouldn’t have been. A crackle of static runs down his spine, makes him sit up straight, correct his posture. “You’re finding excuses again. Come visit. Next weekend.” 

-

Lewis visits Valtteri over the Summer Break.

Lewis facetimes Valtteri when he’s lonely, which is increasingly often. Today the time-difference isn’t too bad, just three hours across the breadth of America, and he can see the sun setting in California through the open bifold doors behind Valtteri. It gives Valtteri’s face this golden glow, the backlighting through his hair creating that silly nineteen-eighties halo effect. In New York, the sun’s well sunk, the city beaming its flood lights beneath Lewis when he wanders out onto his extravagant balcony and sets up shop on one of the comfy, outdoor sofas. It’s not so noisy when you get to the penthouse level, maybe the odd car horn from an angry taxi driver.

“You know you could come visit if you wanted to? There’s no rule that says we can’t hang out in person during the off-season.” Valtteri’s got Lewis’s number exactly and that’s why he likes him so much. He’ll say the thing that Lewis can’t even bring himself to think. “Did you get the calendar?”

Lewis laughs. “Yeah, I got the calendar. I put it up in the kitchen,” he says, and then gets to his excuse. “You’re at Paul’s.”

“So? You know Paul. He loves having guests.” Paul throws up the peace sign behind Valtteri’s head as he’s walking past, mostly out of frame. He knows it well enough that his fingers are only at his waist as he travels around the back of Valtteri’s chair, interfering with the light momentarily. “Plenty of bedrooms.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re all piled into one like squirrels,” and maybe that’s the problem. Lewis knows he’ll turn up and kill the vibe. He has no patience for third, wait, no, in this instance, fourth-wheeling, even if four wheels makes for a perfectly stable vehicle. It’s not a car, it’s a horrible extra appendage on a tricycle — and not just any appendage but a fucking celebrity one, more so than anyone else in the paddock, that will bring cameras descending like vultures upon the tricycle that just wanted to happily roll along, and it will have disastrous consequences and pull the tricycle apart. This analogy might be getting away from him a bit, actually. It’s good that he doesn’t say anything at all, just looks wistfully into the phone at Valtteri accepting a glass of wine from somebody that Lewis can’t quite make out. 

Valtteri’s been collecting people lately and not just romantically. He’s taken Zhou under his wing, an infinitely better grid-dad than Lewis has even attempted to be. Lewis is unsure of exactly what he’s supposed to do with George, who is caught in the uncomfortable intersection of hero-worship and resentment, and Lewis isn’t helping, even if he should be. Yeah, he’s a better teammate than he used to be, but the bar was in the pits of Hades and the fact that he’s calling Valtteri right now is more of a testament to Valtteri’s growth than his own. Even that weird antagonist thing Valtteri had going on with Daniel has pivoted to something… Soft. Slowly but surely, Valtteri’s sanding the sharp edges off his world. Lewis’s world still cuts him all the time.

“So? You’re not obliged to join the cuddle puddle.” Valtteri’s pouting at him, the moustache emphasising the cartoonish downward curve of his mouth. It’s the expression that makes Lewis want to kiss him senseless, climb into his lap and coddle him, smother him with affection until he’s smiling again. Maybe if Valtteri was single he’d have done so, but Valtteri’s got plenty of people to do that for him. He doesn’t need Lewis, not the way Lewis needs him.

“Yeah, but—”

“Lewis.” Valtteri’s voice drops, his expression suddenly stern. It makes Lewis feel like a school boy caught doing something he shouldn’t have been. A crackle of static runs down his spine, makes him sit up straight, correct his posture. “You’re finding excuses again. Come visit. Next weekend.” 

Lewis blinks into the camera. “Uh… Sure. You got it, Man.” He cringes. Man? What the fuck is man? 

There’s a giggle from Valtteri’s end and suddenly Tiffany’s face fills the screen, leaning into frame from the arm of the sofa. “Don’t worry, me and Paul are going out camping. You’ll have the house to yourselves. You can do whateeeeeever you want.” She sticks her tongue out and suddenly the pressure of whatever bubble Lewis is in bursts, spilling over into laughter. He clutches his stomach, watching Valtteri turn bright pink with embarrassment.

-

It’s getting late on Friday evening when Lewis arrives at the house. He tries to steel himself. Even though it’s California, and everybody who’s anybody blows through California, at this point the locals almost give less of a shit than they do in Monaco, the sharp needle of panic that someone is going to spot him going in stabs at the base of his skull. Why? It’s perfectly normal to visit a friend. It’s not even Valtteri’s house, it’s Paul’s. How would the paparazzi even know he was here? It’s not like Lewis told anyone where he was going. Even so, he pulls his hood up over his hair and pushes a pair of shades over the bridge of his nose. Now he looks like somebody’s dealer. A weirdly glamorous dealer.

Valtteri answers the door without a care. He’s barefoot, in his pyjamas, a short-sleeved button up and shorts that stop above the knee, dark blue and patterned with rockets and stars. His hair is mussed, and he’s twitching his face like he’s still a little out of it. Lewis makes a face, he’s certain, because Valtteri sticks his tongue out at him, childish and silly. “Woke me up.”

“It’s like nine,” Lewis giggles, hurrying himself inside. Even so, he hushes his voice, hoping not to wake anyone else.

“You don’t have to be so quiet. They went in the afternoon. I just wanted to be comfy and then I had a nap… By accident…” Valtteri takes the suitcase, dutiful host that he is, and shows Lewis where the bedroom is, then the bathroom. “You can shower. I will make something to eat.” He disappears back the way he came and Lewis can’t help but watch him go, the way his shirt rides up as he stretches his arms above his head revealing a sliver of pale skin, the subtle movement of the muscles beneath it.

Lewis unpacks his wash kit. Valtteri knows what Lewis wants— More than that, he knows what Lewis needs, which right now is to wash the aeroplane off himself. He doesn’t have to explain himself, nor is he a mysterious presence. Valtteri simply understands. In the shower, Lewis takes his time, washes his braids properly. He could have done it before he left, he supposes, when he’s drying them afterwards, but somehow it had seemed odd. The process takes him the best part of an hour, but Valtteri doesn’t come looking. He puts on his own pyjamas, much less silly and cute than Valtteri’s, just a grey pair of joggers and a plain black vest and pads out into the kitchen.

“Smells good,” Lewis mumbles as Valtteri pushes a bowl of couscous and roasted vegetables into his hands. He glances across at the pile of used dishes. “Let me sort that out after.”

“Nope.” Valtteri grins, popping his plosive. “You’re my guest.”

Lewis takes a bite. It’s delicious, obviously, a bright burst of mint and lemon blossoming on his tongue. Valtteri’s an incredible cook, and Lewis is fortunate to be one of the handful of people that know as much. “Aww, come on. Let me earn my keep.”

“Lewis.” There’s that tone again. It makes Lewis stop chewing, stand completely still and just look at Valtteri, pay perfect attention. Valtteri has his arms folded over his chest, a soft, but stern expression that even the pyjamas can’t undermine. “I’m taking care of you. Go sit on the sofa, pick something to watch.”

The next moment he’s sitting on the sofa, no memory of how he got there. The kettle boils as he boots up Netflix, a little nosy to see what the three of them have been watching. How to Build a Sex Room has Lewis giggling, kicking his feet off the edge of the sofa. Of course, obviously. It’s curious, Lewis’ therapist has pointed out on more than one occasion that Lewis isn’t jealous in this way. In racing, sure. Well, maybe it’s even the wrong word there. Lewis is competitive, but not jealous. Even being here, Lewis can’t imagine a world in which Valtteri isn’t with Tiffany and Paul, nor does he want one.

“Ahhh, I made a promise not to watch that without them,” Valtteri says, putting a cup of green tea down on the coffee table in front of Lewis. He sits, gets himself comfortable, then pulls Lewis to lean on him, kisses him on the temple like the contact is nothing. It makes Lewis shiver. Valtteri must feel it, but doesn’t say anything. “I can watch Indian Matchmaker though. Tiffy thinks it’s too mushy.”

So that’s what they put on; Lewis does enjoy his dating shows, even more so when there’s someone there to pass comment to about how no man is ever going to be right for Apana because she just needs to admit that she’s a lesbian. It doesn’t take long for the pair of them to demolish the food. Athletes, high metabolisms, etc. Valtteri takes the bowls back to the kitchen while Lewis goes back to his suitcase for some oil for his braids. He can feel his scalp drying out by the second.

“I can do that.” Valtteri scoops the bottle up off the table despite Lewis’ questioning eyebrow. “I’ve seen you do it enough times. You’ll tell me if I get it wrong, hmm?” He arranges a few cushions on the floor at his feet, then spreads his knees and pats his thigh, like in another context it’s not a lewd invitation. Lewis’s eyes go wide, but he’s powerless to stop himself from obeying, resting his cheek against Valtteri’s thigh so that he can start with the left side.

Valtteri’s gentle, to start, much more so than Lewis would be with himself, and thorough. He lets the oil warm on his fingers first, then strokes around the edge of the first box, closest to Lewis’s hairline. Valtteri’s own hair has been pretty well looked after recently, now that he’s not buzzing it into oblivion. Maybe Tiffany finally took away the Head & Shoulders. Lewis closes his eyes, lets himself be moved and adjusted, Valtteri’s free hand stroking through the ends of his braids. Slowly, Valtteri adjusts the pressure, works out how hard he can push at the scalp to get that moisture to absorb. Lewis’s scalp is, after all, a thirsty bitch. 

The sensation of touch after so long without it is intense. By the time Valtteri is halfway across and is tipping Lewis’ head over onto his other thigh, Lewis is struggling not to curl into it, rub his face against the soft flannel texture of Valtteri’s pyjama pants. The fingers of Valtteri’s unoccupied left hand massage at the base of Lewis’ skull, trail down his neck to squeeze at his traps and Lewis has to bite his lip not to moan, to turn it into a slow exhale. It’s a conscious effort not to pull away, to let anyone touch him like this, even Valtteri, who is finished now, but still touching, refusing to let the leftover oil on his hands go to waste. He presses his thumb into the hollow at the junction of Lewis’s jaw and ear, follows the bone along, stroking under Lewis’s chin, then drags it up onto Lewis’s face, close enough to his lips that Lewis could turn his head mere centimetres to capture it in his mouth.

Then Valtteri’s moving, taking his hands away and Lewis wants to cry, except Valtteri’s moving forwards, sliding down from the sofa to join Lewis on the floor, spooning him. He brings his lips to Lewis’s neck and that makes Lewis gasp, loll his head back against Valtteri’s shoulder. Valtteri’s stubble against his skin burns, every nerve ending alive and alight, sparking up all at once like too many candles on a birthday cake. One hand creeps under the hem of Lewis’s vest, Valtteri’s arm curling around Lewis’s tiny waist, pulling them flush together.

“This is okay, yes?” Lewis can feel Valtteri’s voice vibrating against his skin. He’s going to combust. Paul’s beautiful house is going to be reduced to ash. Valtteri’s eyelashes flutter against his jawline.

“Yes.” His lips answer, his vagus nerve bypassing his brain. His switchboard is overloading, a thousand different sirens and a rotating emergency light. He’s not supposed to say yes. He’s not supposed to permit himself to want, but still he kneels down inside himself, submits.

“Good.” Valtteri kisses him, slow and deep, considered and purposeful. Lewis’s mind continues to whirr, generates a thousand and one reasons why this is a terrible idea and all of them are pain. But Valtteri’s right hand tangles in his freshly oiled braids and the fingers of his left are  tracing along the lines of Lewis’s abdominals and his mouth is still alive with the zest of lemon. It’s so much more than Lewis had allowed himself to even fantasise, late at night, all alone in another enormous bed, reading blind items about himself like he isn’t in a state of self-imposed celibacy, pretending he knows the first thing about zen and the art of psychological maintenance. When Valtteri pulls away, Lewis whimpers, sound leaking out of him like blood out of an open wound. Valtteri’s hand cups his cheek. “Lewis? Are you alright?”

“Huh?” Lewis blinks, dazed, even the half-dimmed lights suddenly intense. He touches his face, surprised at his own wet cheeks. “Oh my god. I don’t know what that is…” He tries to laugh it off but finds himself looking across at Valtteri, nervous, flickering. Valtteri’s head is tipped at a slight angle, his mouth a tight line. Lewis shrinks. “Sorry. Sorry.”

“Hey, no. No, none of that.” Valtteri’s thumbs wipe beneath Lewis’s eyes and he draws him back into another kiss, briefer, meant to reassure. “I want you, okay? I want you. Do you want me?”

Lewis pauses, his voice caught in his throat. Valtteri’s eyes are so painfully blue, brighter than any he’s seen so close. “I… I don’t want to ruin it.” Because that’s what he does, isn’t it? He has love in his arms, a beautiful thing, and he gets so hungry for it, sinks his teeth in so deep, feels it panic and cry out and die, its blood smeared all over his mouth. “You’ll hate me.”

Valtteri stills, sits with it, resting his chin against Lewis’s shoulder. He holds Lewis’s hands, his fingers slotting between Lewis’s. “That’s always the risk.” His arms squeeze Lewis tighter, tender and Lewis finds his memory echoing with the sound of Valtteri yelling in dense, incomprehensible Finnish, Emilia screaming just as loudly, the firm shove of her hands against Valtteri’s chest as she had pushed him away, stormed out of the room, out of the paddock, spied through the gap of an open door. How Lewis had cringed across at Toto, how she hadn’t come back. Lewis isn’t the only person who’s had his heart broken. “But who would we be if we didn’t risk something, hmm?”

He noses at Valtteri’s cheek. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” Because he does want Valtteri, so much it feels like an expanding balloon inside him, pushing at his ribs until they crack, his diaphragm tearing his breath ragged and rough, filled with the sharpness of splinters. “I want you too. More than anything.”

“More than an eighth title?” Valtteri chuckles, kissing at Lewis’s jawline, but he knows what he’s asking. Is it selfish? It’s hard to say. There must have been a point where Valtteri realised titles don’t come to the kind.

“Yes.” Both of them pause in surprise, colour blooming across Lewis’s cheeks just as much as Valtteri’s. Valtteri’s mouth is round and open. Lewis takes his chin between his thumb and forefinger and kisses him, initiates this time, strokes over Valtteri’s cheek with the flat of his palm. He still looks shocked when their lips part again. “Sorry, I’m a romantic.” 

That gets a laugh and Valtteri extricates himself out of his spot, stands up and stretches. Lewis watches him with interest, a sparkle in his expression. A smile looks so wonderful when it plays out across Valtteri’s face. “That’s funny, so am I.” He slides onto his stomach in front of Lewis. “Now, I’ve wanted to do something for a while.”

Lewis lifts his hips, lets Valtteri slide down his pyjama pants. It should be funny, perhaps, seeing Valtteri stroking his cock while he’s still in his space-themed jim jams, but Lewis doesn’t have it in himself to find it anything other than beautiful. He leans back on his palms, his eyes heavy-lidded with romance. It’s only a couple of strokes before Lewis is full-mast. He lifts a hand to stroke through Valtteri’s hair, which is exactly as soft and sleek as it looks, waves forming at the edge of the mullet. When he’d first met Valtteri, he’d assumed that it would grow out pinion straight, but he’s slowly being proven wrong. “You gonna take care of me?”

Valtteri huffs a warm breath across Lewis’s tip. “Yeah. That’s the idea. I’m a good host.” If Lewis has a retort, it’s swallowed into Valtteri’s mouth with his cock. Lewis lets his head rest against the edge of the sofa, keeps his eyes open so that he can enjoy the blue of Valtteri’s eyes, looking back at Lewis, a lewd smile pulling at the edges of his stretched mouth. The expression alone threatens to finish Lewis off immediately and he has to squeeze at the base of his cock. Valtteri pulls back and pouts.

“You don’t want it over that quick, do you Babe?” Valtteri bristles with delight in response to the pet name and Lewis files it away for later.

“I suppose not, no,” is all the warning Lewis gets before Valtteri dives back in. He can’t quite take Lewis all the way down, lets out a little huff of disappointment at his own gag reflex and tries a second time. Lewis has to pull him back by the hair, rolls his eyes, wags a finger like he would at a silly puppy. 

“If I’m gonna take it easy, you have to take it easy too.” Valtteri grumbles, licks at the tip, kisses his way down the shaft to lathe his tongue against Lewis’s balls, his taint, which is frankly unfair. 

Lewis arches his back, almost slips down onto the floor before he catches himself, a hand grasping at the sofa, banging his elbow against the floorboards. He can’t help it, he laughs. Lewis can’t remember a time he let sex be silly, but this time it feels right, and the mischievous joy radiating out of Valtteri, far from being a boner killer, makes his cock rise and twitch against Valtteri’s face. “You alright there Old Timer?” Valtteri says with a shit-eating grin.

And that makes Lewis laugh even harder, looking at Valtteri’s rumpled pyjamas. Lewis’s abs clench, threatening to give him a stitch. He throws a hand over his eyes and they’re wet again, but it’s mirth this time. “Fuck you, I’m not even as old as your boyfriend.” Valtteri shrugs his shoulders, lets Lewis shut him up with his cock, cradle the back of his skull with his palm and fuck his mouth until he cums down his throat. Then he flops down flat on his back on the floor, pats his bare thigh, his pyjamas still around his ankles. “C’mon Babe, get yourself off for me.” 

“I don’t need—” Lewis sits up just enough to catch Valtteri’s eye, raises an eyebrow at him.

“Aren’t you a good host?” Valtteri bites at his lip, caught out. “Take those shorts down for me and come sit here.”

Valtteri fidgets for a moment, then does as he’s told, his cock lovely and pink and hard, unexpectedly smooth, until Lewis remembers that Valtteri doesn’t have any leg hair either. Cycling, huh? Then he straddles Lewis’s thigh, adjusts himself into a comfortable position, gasping with surprise as Lewis bends his knee, raises his thigh just enough to give Valtteri a little help with the grind, Valtteri’s dazzlingly blue eyes widening delightfully.

He’s so gorgeous like this, his bottom lip drawn between his teeth in concentration as he chases down release. Lewis thinks about reaching down and stroking Valtteri’s cock, but the way it looks as he ruts back and forth is just far too pretty. Instead, he reaches a hand up into Valtteri’s shirt and pinches a nipple, soaking up the wonderful sharp gasp he gets at the first touch, then the deeper, more guttural groan as he intensifies the pressure. 

“God you’re so fucking pretty. You can fuck me tomorrow,” Lewis says, and then Valtteri’s spurting across his skin in warm, wet stripes, shuddering and collapsing down onto Lewis’s chest. Lewis kisses the top of his head, listens to Valtteri’s breath evening out, squeezes a handful of that famous ass. “You okay there?”

Valtteri laughs. “Pretty sure I’m supposed to be asking you that.”

Neither of them can bring themselves to move for several long minutes, until somebody’s phone vibrates loudly against the coffee table. Lewis can’t help it, nosy bitch that he is. He peeks.

Goldilocks: night vb xxx

“Sorry, I should have turned that off,” Valtteri offers, apologetically. He tips his head, scanning Lewis’s expression, like he’s expecting anger. And maybe that’s Lewis’s fault, for not being quite clear enough on where he’s at.

Lewis ruffles Valtteri’s hair again. “I’m not gonna ask you to leave Tiffany and Paul for me. That’s not you. I wouldn’t like you so much if it was. I’m not jealous. You be with whoever you want.” 

Valtteri cringes. “... Actually that one’s Daniel.”

Then Lewis is really laughing again, crushing his lips against Valtteri’s pink cheek. 

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of The Valtteri-Cule Extended Universe