Chapter Text
“I don’t mind driving, but what you’re doing is suicide.”
Fernando licks his lips, laughing. His fingers flex and unflex on the leather steering wheel before he pushes the gas pedal with his right foot even more — even lower — forcing the car to go even faster. The old-school-looking speedometer hand shoots from 130 to 150 miles per hour so fast it seems like it just spawned there.
“Did anyone ever tell you that you’re adorable when you complain?”
“Did anyone ever tell you that you’re an asshole sometimes?” Lance spits out in barely-there-anger.
“No,” Fernando responds in heavy Spanish accent that only comes out when he allows it to, “but your papa tells me that I spoil you too much.”
Lance rolls his eyes. His voice is as sarcastic as can be when he says, “For sure, dude. I believe that.”
Fernando pushes the car even further, until the speedometer above the wheel shows over 170, before allowing the Aston Martin to slow down gradually. “Oh, but he did, princesa. Made me promise to treat you more as — how you say? — equal, not like you’re an egg.”
Lance lifts one eyebrow up in confusion without even realizing as he repeats, “Egg?” His fingers are cold as he lets his right hand drop into his lap again, no longer needing to hold the seatbelt in something very close to fear, but even closer to concern for his friend who just broke the speed limit by about a hundred miles per hour. “What the fuck do you mean egg?”
Smiling, Fernando turns his face towards Lance for a brief second before turning to face the road again. “Not in a bad way, just… fragile. Delicate. Needing… protection.”
“Well, I am certainly not fragile, or fucking… delicate,” Lance laughs, shaking his head. “And I certainly don’t need protecting, dude.”
“Eh,” Fernando just hums, “whatever you say, princesa.”
“I am not fragile,” Lance protests as he folds his arms on his chest. The engine is purring quietly for a second before he adds, “And don’t call me that.”
“What? Egg or —”
“Princesa! We’ve talked about it, dude. If you don’t stop, people might get the wrong idea.”
Fernando makes a show of himself looking around. “No people here. Only us, princesa, and I promise I won’t get any wrong ideas about you.”
The car is going at a steady speed of 65 miles per hour, and Lance can tell Fernando wants to go faster. But he also knows that he won’t speed up again because Lance complained. It’s always like that. And it has always been like that, ever since they became teammates.
Lance looks out of the window, watching as the sea on his right washes over the sandy beach coast. For a moment he sees a couple with a dog running around them, and he sighs. “Why did I even agree to come with you?” he breathes out, not really expecting an answer, but knowing he will get anyways.
“Because you can’t resist my charm, princesa,” Fernando laughs, winking at Lance.
Lance rolls his eyes again. “Fuck off, would ya?”
The phone in his pocket dings then, stealing Lance’s attention away from Fernando.
estie bestie
you up?
sir lancelot
im not ur ex
dont hit me up like this
estie bestie
okay
are you there?
sir lancelot
yea whats up?
estie bestie
do you remember the club we went to last november?
it was in london i think
something like golden duck or silver fox or something like
metal animal
sir lancelot
wasnt it platinum shark
estie bestie
yeahhh
as i said
metal animal
sir lancelot
sure man
estie bestie
what you doing
sir lancelot
in car with fernando
estie bestie
hon hon hon
spicy
sir lancelot
i need to come up wth something to piss him off
like he keeps calling me princesa
estie bestie
call him daddy
that’s weird enough
sir lancelot
you think?
what if hes into it tho
???
estie bestie
at least youd get properly fucked
yk boned
dicked down
horizontal tango
youre single for too long
sir lancelot
fuck you too
bitch
“Who’s texting you?” Fernando asks, intending for it to sound casual, but there is something dangerously close to jealousy clouding his eyes.
Lance pauses before shoving his phone back into his pocket, licking his lips. With an eyeroll, he lets out a nonchalant, “Oi, chill. It’s just Estie.”
“That doesn’t really calm me down,” Fernando says, unmoved. “Nothing good ever comes out from that frog-eater texting you randomly.”
Even though he tries not to, Lance bursts out laughing. “Don’t call him that, dude.”
“I can’t call you princesa, I can’t call Ocon frog-eater, I can’t do anything!” Fernando spits out faux-upset, letting go of the steering wheel for a second before grabbing it again. “Next thing I know I won’t be allowed to drive you around like this anymore.”
That makes Lance chuckle. “Don’t worry, I will never not allow you to be my own personal chauffeur,” he purrs, touching Fernando’s thigh as he speaks.
“Sí, that’s all I am for you,” Fernando barks, playing it up. “A chauffeur! A slave!”
Lance makes sure the following words come out playfully. “Well, what else?” He pretends to scratch his head and think, before continuing in the played-up version of whatever this is between them. “Not everyone gets to be driven around by a two-time Formula 1 world champion, do they? I’d be stupid to say no when you offer to drive me around.”
“Makes sense. Princesses rarely drive themselves around, as far as I know.”
And those words are the last bit of encouragement Lance needs to retaliate. Smirking, he pats Fernando’s thigh before leaning a bit closer to him. He licks his lips again, leaving his tongue out for just a second too long, and says, as seductively as possible, “Why should I? That’s what I have you for, daddy.”
The silence that follows is unexpected and charged.
Fernando doesn’t look at him, just looks straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel like it personally offended him, to the point of his knuckles turning white. The car’s speed drops from 65 to 60, and then again from 60 to 50 — too slow for this road — but Fernando fails to notice at first.
Sitting properly again, Lance exhales through his nose. His eyes move from his hands to the dashboard, then to the side mirror and back to his hands, not trusting himself to face Fernando now. As blood rushes to his head, Lance’s cheeks turn a deep shade of pinkish purple. His phone dings again, but the Canadian doesn’t hear it over the beating of his heart — which must be beating directly in his ears.
Slowly, much slower than Fernando usually drives, they reach an intersection, at which the car leaves the freeway, turning right and continuing onto a narrower road.
Lance bites his lip, pulling it into his mouth with his teeth, then letting go again, before biting and pulling it back in. The small spot of dry skin on his lower lip is gone now, ripped away and bleeding lightly, but Lance just keeps going.
There are about million things he could say, maybe thousand jokes he could make, perhaps even a few lies he could claim, but none of them feel right. Not here, not now, not when it comes to Fernando.
The car stops.
They are parked in the shade, next to a road lined with big trees Lance feels like he should know the names of, but he doesn’t.
Fernando’s seatbelt clicks, signaling that it’s no longer holding the driver in place.
Closing his eyes, Lance expects a lot of things — the driver’s door opening, Fernando pulling out his phone and calling his father, even the words, “Get out.”
But he hears none of those things.
Lance opens one eye, worried what he might see, and peeks towards his teammate.
Fernando is sitting with his hands on his knees, looking straight ahead with an unreadable expression. His lips are pressed into a thin line.
Lance opens the other eye as well. He breathes out through his mouth, trying to find the right words. As they fail to come and fill his mouth, he reaches for his seatbelt, unclipping himself free. “I’m sorry,” is all that he manages to say before opening the door and stepping out as ungracefully as ever.
The actions that follow are fast, so fast that Lance actually doesn’t realize what’s happening until it’s done. As he turns away from the Aston Martin, stepping away, Fernando opens his door, jumps out, reaches Lance on steady legs, and grabs his wrist, pulling him closer to himself. Lance bumps into Fernando’s chest, unprepared for the maneuver, and it pushes a surprised ah out of him.
“Where do you think you’re going, huh?” Fernando growls, and it’s a low sound that travels from his chest out through his mouth and straight into Lance’s underbelly. “Hm?”
Lance bites his lower lip again as his eyes make the unnerving journey to meet Fernando’s deep gaze. The space between them is filled with electricity and warmth, and Lance’s, “I, uh, I —”
“What’s wrong, princesa?” Fernando asks, quiet and sure, pulling Lance even closer — how in the name of all that’s holy is he pulling him even closer? — and his fingers are still wrapped around Lance’s wrist, tight enough to make their presence known, yet gently enough not to hurt. Fernando lifts the other hand, placing it on Lance’s cheek. He caresses the younger man’s cheekbone with his thumb before speaking again. “You were so mouthy before, and now? Quiet as a mouse. What happened? Cat got your tongue?”
“You went quiet,” is all that Lance says, his eyes huge and glossy. The bravado he never forgets to wear is gone, now; the tall man standing there, towering over Fernando, is sixteen again, arms wrapped around himself as his then-teammate and crush laughs at him for having confessed his feelings to him. He’s fourteen, hovering in his father’s office, waiting for him to hang up the call that interrupted his attempt as coming out as bisexual. He’s twelve, tears rolling down his cheeks as he realizes that he doesn’t like girls the way he’s supposed to, the way every other boy does. He’s twenty-seven, and Fernando is forty-four, and they are both standing there, looking at each other with too many unsaid things in their eyes, holding eye contact that feels like love making and fist fighting at the same time. “I… I thought that, uh, —”
“And you’re surprised?”
“Well… yeah?” Lance nods. “Like, I mean… yeah, I-I guess?”
Fernando caresses Lance’s cheek again. His hand is calloused but — somehow — still the softest thing Lance has ever touched. Or that has ever touched him. “Lancito, if I turned to look at you, we’d be in a ditch now.”
Lance tilts his head to one side, eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “Why?”
Sighing, Fernando states plainly, “I got a boner.”
Blushing, Lance breathes out, “Oh.”
The hand on his cheek is still there, still caressing him, and Lance cannot help but bite his lip again. His eyebrows knit together as he drifts into thoughts — and images he usually only leaves for lonely nights — which only makes him blush more.
And Fernando, ever the opportunist, slides his hand to the back of Lance’s head, pulling him closer. Their faces are barely two inches apart, their breaths mingling together in a warm cloud of CO2 and unspoken confessions.
Lance smiles as their noses touch.
“I will kiss you now,” Fernando says, and it’s not a question, but Lance nods anyway.
Lance closes his eyes, while Fernando closes the distance between them. And when their lips finally touch — oh god — it’s electric and wonderful and better than Lance has ever dreamed it could be.
It feels completely different from the way girls kiss. Lance’s skin tingles where Fernando’s stubble scratches it in the most delicious way, and he wishes the moment could go on forever.
It’s Fernando who dictates the rhythm of the kiss, moving his soft, pillowy lips in a commanding way that guides a soft moan from somewhere within Lance’s chest.
With his eyes still closed, Lance finds Fernando’s side, sliding his hand onto his shoulder-blade.
Fernando pulls them tighter together, which in turn makes Lance dig his fingers into Fernando’s back.
When the need for air becomes a little too pressing, they part, but not fully. Fernando’s hand is still on Lance’s nape, holding him in place so that their foreheads can continue touching.
Smirking, Fernando breathes out, “So, princesa, am I good for more than just driving you around?”
“Maybe,” Lance chuckles. “You’ll have to do it again for me to decide, daddy.”