#also sorry for the amount of sewis in it lol. they have been on my mind since i saw seb minding lewis’s scooter | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

milflewis · 2 years

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sebchal + gold

lol i am sorry it took so long. wasn’t able to write for ages so only going through these prompts now. anyway here’s 2k of medieval sebchal dancing around each other for you !! hope you like it bestie

“May I ask what exactly are you doing, Your Highness?”

Fuck.

Charles knocks his head against the stone arch as he startles, flailing around, cheeks hot. He swears out loud when he sees Pierre behind him and not Lord Mattia.

“You’ve gotten way too good at his voice,” Charles says.

Pierre is laughing as he steps up beside him, dark blue tunic broad across his shoulders. There’s a faint pink scratch along his jaw. Pierre refuses to let anyone else but himself shave his beard. The dirt from the war, Charles has found, has clung to people differently.

He looks good though, eyes bright, face unshadowed and clean, hair falling into his forehead. His ring burns bronze in the sun as he rubs his fingers against his mouth, peering over the low balcony wall.

“Ah,” he says, a little smug. “I see.”

Charles elbows him in the ribs as Pierre laughs again. “I was admiring your husband,” Charles says, turning back to the training ground below them.

Pierre hums as they watch Yuki grin down at Alex who’s lying flat at his feet, legs sprawled, sword fallen off to the side. Yuki laughs, jumping a little when Alex tries to kick his feet out from under him, and Charles watches Pierre’s face soften from the corner of his eye.

“Understandable,” Pierre says quietly. “He’s very admirable.”

He smiles and there’s something sharp in his eyes that reminds Charles of when they were younger and the kingdom was smaller and Pierre used to shove Charles into Alex during dances because he knew Charles had a crush on the older boy and thought he was a lot funnier than he actually was.

“Speaking of admirable,” Pierre nods to the training ring just below them, right where Charles was definitely not looking earlier.

Ser Lewis Hamilton is laughing as he pulls off his helmet, curls damp with sweat and wild around his face, and throws it to one side. He spins his axe in small tight circles, metal glinting liquid and bright in the low morning sun. Charles recognises it to be Ser Valtteri’s, though the other knight is nowhere to be seen. Lewis’s own famous broadsword is leaning up against the table where the rest of their armour is strewn around.

Lewis is now down to just his right vambrace.

“What are they doing?” Pierre asks, eyes tracing the width of Lewis’s shoulders. Charles rolls his eyes, typical.

“A training game, I think. If one of them hits a body part, the other one has to lose the armour they’re wearing there and then if they get hit there again, they can no longer use the limb.”

Pierre chews the inside of his cheek for a moment, trying not to smile. It only makes his dimples press in deeper.

“That’s not what they normally wear,” he says and Charles grins.

He watches as Lord Sebastian Vettel points his sword at Lewis’s chest, giving him a half salute with it and a wink. He had taken off his tunic when he removed his breastplate earlier. His undershirt is dark with sweat and clings to the curve of his arms.

“No, it’s not.”

Their usual armour of dark grey steel and brown leather is nowhere to be seen. Instead, they’ve chosen to wear their golden ceremonial armour; winged helmets, heavy vambraces and metal boots. No one can spend more than five minutes in this castle when there are celebrations on and not hear Sebastian petitioning to King Michael on why exactly he shouldn’t have to wear the absolute ridiculous costume that Lord Wolff insists on them wearing and how could they defend Your Majesty if something happened when they could barely walk under all the extra metal and ornaments and it’s a waste, Sire, it should be given to the poor and even what Lewis wears on his days off is less ostentatious than this.

Lewis stands beside him, face solemn and serious, and says, like he’s announcing that they lost the northern flank and will have to retreat, that he, regretfully, cannot find his armour. He had the audacity to say, one year, that he fears his horse, Roscoe, may have ran off with it and that he’s not sure where he must have put it because Lewis had checked his stables and hadn’t been able to find it. Charles had nearly had to leave the hall as he tried not to laugh at the look on Michael’s face. Valtteri doesn’t even bother to come up with an excuse when he turns up, not wearing it.

Lewis seems to have had no trouble finding it now and neither of them appear at all slowed down by it.

Sebastian grins at him, flicking his hair from his face, down to two vambraces.

They watch as Sebastian attacks, slicing at Lewis’s gut before twisting his hand and arching the blade up. Lewis parries with the hilt of his long-axe and grins, slamming his forehead into Sebastian’s face, who curses. Sebastian stumbles, barely half a step backwards, but it’s enough space for Lewis to kick him in the chest. He follows him close, knocking his sword away. It all happens to quickly that Charles barely has time to blink.

Lewis presses the blade of his axe gently against Sebastian’s throat with one hand as he reaches for the knife at his waist and pulls it out. He taps the blade on Sebastian’s two vambraces as Sebastian glares at him.

“You already won, Hamilton,” Sebastian scowls, pushing the axe away with a careless hand. “There was no need to take my vambraces too.”

Lewis laughs, following him to the table where they left the rest of their armour. “Oh, but there was.” He bumps his shoulder into Sebastian’s. “It was funny. And aren’t you always telling me that I should laugh more?”

Sebastian grimaces, eyes light, and runs a hand though his hair.

“Since when have you ever listened to me?” He scrambles to hold up a hand, nearly hitting Lewis in the face. “And don’t say Baku. I explicitly told you not to talk to that man and—”

Lewis scoffs, “You fucking did not. You said to talk to him, that he had been watching me all night, and that he was a knight, not a bloody king.”

“How was I supposed to know that you were going to tell him that you heard a knight is always as hard as his armour and if you could check if the rumours are true?”

Charles chokes on nothing as Pierre starts giggling beside him.

Lewis shoves him and Sebastian laughs, something catching in Charles’s chest at the sound. “I was drunk, you bastard.”

“I still can’t believe that line worked. Though, King Jenson isn’t exactly the classiest of people.”

Lewis makes a noise in the back of his throat, half incredulous, “What has the world come to when Lord Sebastian Vettel is commentating on the lack of classiness a person has.”

Sebastian shrugs, the movement easy and rolling, and grins, his smile clumsy and wide on his face.

“What can I say, I am a pillar of virtue.”

Lewis laughs, eyes crinkling, Sebastian’s smile growing wider at the sight of it.

“Well,” Pierre says, voice pitched low, already smirking. Charles braces himself for whatever he is about to say. “I don’t think that is the kind of strip show you have been wanting Lord Vettel to do for you for years but I certainly enjoyed it.”

Charles coughs, and ignores his friend as Pierre cackles beside him. He slaps Pierre’s hand away when he reaches up to poke one of Charles’s flaming cheeks.

Lewis looks up, ruffling his hair, and catches Charles’s eye. Charles freezes, feeling like he’s caught doing something wrong even though there are at least half a dozen people watching training this morning. His eyes are dark and unreadable like they often are but then after a moment, he grins at him, nodding a little. Charles swallows back the heat of embarrassment at the weight of knowing in Lewis’s eyes and returns his nod.

Lewis reaches for one of the waterskins on the ground beside Sebastian, mouth moving, words too quiet for Charles to hear. Pierre laughs beside him.

Sebastian seems to still, his own waterskin halfway to his lips. Charles tries very hard to ignore how Lewis glances up at him again before saying something else that makes Sebastian’s training flushed cheeks darken even further.

Sebastian rolls his eyes, hair glowing light at the edges. Sometimes, Charles finds it difficult to look straight at him, catches himself looking a little to the left of him, at the space right above his ear.

“I nearly had you,” Charles can hear him say and his stomach sparks something hot and fizzing at the low scratch of his voice.

Lewis laughs again, pausing in taking off the last piece of his armour, a deep gold that is now dusty and scuffed, hand against his chest. “Nearly, old friend, as you very well know, is not good enough.”

Charles doesn’t miss the way Sebastian’s eyes flicker down to the long slash of a scar that circles Lewis’s throat where they tried to behead him and, like most people who try to stop the unmovable force that is Lewis Hamilton, they failed, before laughing with him.

“True,” Sebastian says, and throws the rest of his water into Lewis’s face. He tackles him at the waist while the other knight is distracted, both of them tumbling into the ground, dust and sand coughing up around them.

Pierre sighs heavily beside him. “I am a wonderful friend, I hope you know that.”

“You’re the worst,” Charles says, already dreading what Pierre’s about to do.

Pierre grins and ducks around him, too quick for Charles to catch him, and hurries down the stairs to their left. Stairs that lead to the courtyard.

Charles swears and follows him, nearly tripping over his feet. By the time he gets outside, Pierre is talking to Lewis and Sebastian, cheeks slightly pink, smile soft. The two knights are no longer wrestling on the ground, shirts dirty and untucked. The neck of Sebastian’s shirt is stretched out slightly, sweat pooling along his collarbone. Want hits Charles deep in his chest and he curls his fingers into fists, hands behind his back.

They half bow as Charles approaches them, one hand on their chests, and he awkwardly waves them off.

“Prince Charles,” Lewis says, eyes laughing, and Sebastian only smiles at him, saying nothing. “Sirs,” Charles replies, trying to not visibly react as Sebastian glances down at Charles’s chest where his shirt is open quite a bit. It’s hot, Charles wants to tell him and tries not to blush. His necklace feels heavy around his throat.

Beautiful, Sebastian had said, years ago, on Charles’s twenty-first birthday, stepping back. His fingers had been warm and feather-light where they brushed his neck as they clasped the chain together. Charles had wanted to grab them, trace their callouses, but he had only smiled, thank you, sir.

Call me Sebastian, Sebastian had laughed because Sebastian was always laughing. I couldn’t possibly, Charles had said, but thank you. Sebastian had shrugged, I’ll convince you. I’ve been told I can be quite stubborn. I’ll keep pestering you for as long as it takes. Charles had laughed, the next person holding a gift approaching, and thought, do you swear it?

Lewis leans one elbow on Sebastian’s shoulder as he takes off a boot, pouring the sand out. “I saw you watching us, Your Highness. I hope we put on a good show for you.”

He laughs as Sebastian steps on his foot.

Charles falters. “You looked very, um, your form looked very well. I mean, I —”

Why is he still talking?

“Your swordplay was very, um, precise. And, uh, experienced? I mean—”

“We know what you mean, Your Highness,” Sebastian interrupts, voice soft. “Thank you.”

Charles clears his throat. “Yes, well, you’re welcome.”

By the gods, shut up, Charles.

He cringes internally and stays focused on Sebastian’s face so he doesn’t have to look at Lewis’s who always seems to catch him looking at Sebastian during balls and meetings when he should be paying attention to everything else. He can practically feel Pierre vibrating beside him from the strain of holding in his laughter.

Charles keeps his mouth shut for the rest of the conversation, watching as Sebastian eventually drags his stare away, listening to whatever Pierre and Lewis are talking about.

He makes himself be distracted by George and Alex sparring two rings over, Yuki now gone, and not by Sebastian’s fingers playing with the strings of his shirt, the light hair on the back of his hand visible in the sun. His hands are smaller than mine, Charles thinks and despairs at himself.

Sebastian’s smile is quiet and his words are soft when he says, “Goodbye, Your Highness. Your Grace.” Lewis nods at both of them, eyes flickering from Sebastian to Charles back to Sebastian again, more brazen and bold than most would be.

Charles ignores him and he grins, saying something to Sebastian as they walk away that makes Sebastian speed up a little so Lewis has to jog to catch up.

“‘Your swordplay is experienced’. Really, petit calamardo? That’s the best you could do?”

Charles groans, dragging his hands down his face. “I am begging you to leave me alone.”

“Experienced! You just called Lord Vettel old, Charles. Old.”

#also sorry for the amount of sewis in it lol. they have been on my mind since i saw seb minding lewis’s scooter #threw in some platonic piarles for you too #might write more of this au but idk. we’ll see #sebchal #stuff i wrote #one! braincell bestie #f1 rpf fic #fic.asks #niamh.asks

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