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pitconfirm · 3 months

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did u say hurt and comfort

okay... posting this is a bit out of my comfort zone but i will be nice 😇 but beware it was written in one very sad sitting after the race so may be a little... rough. and venty. just 1500 words of strollonso rambling:

Lance often isn’t a creature of nuance, and certainly never of subtlety. There are two distinct sides to him, sharply and overtly separated. He can be loud, cheeky, confident, shameless. That’s the Lance most people know, and most people unduly hate; misinterpreting his behaviour as bratty and petulant. But there’s a flip side—the quiet, self-conscious, shy Lance. That’s the Lance in Fernando’s bed tonight. Well, their bed. Lance’s hotel room is always more of a cover-up than a living space these days.

They’ve been here before, and Fernando has seen it all—crashes, tears, anger, and apologies. Mostly apologies. Despite whatever bullshit narrative the media might prefer, Lance is sorely self-critical, often to the point of detriment. To the point where he can’t even celebrate his highs because he’s too caught up thinking what more he could’ve done. Every corner, every gear shift, every blink. So, the shyness doesn’t come as much of a surprise tonight.

Things like these happen. Mistakes and lapses of concentration are a cruel part of racing. But things like these are never just things like these for Lance. His last name cracks open an entirely different can of hatred. The type of bias and cruelty that makes Fernando’s skin burn, hot and angry. He calms himself, keeping his composure for Lance’s sake.

“Hey, Lancey…” he whispers, kind and gentle; climbing onto the bed after getting back from the debrief that Lance chose not to attend. Lance is sat on top of the sheets and still in his race gear, as though the effort of changing would be too much in his sorrowful state. He gives Fernando nothing but a shy smile, averting his gaze and shuffling uncomfortably under the attention.

“Where are you?” Fernando asks, waving a hand in front of his distant eyes; big, brown, and damp. It snaps Lance back into focus, making eye contact in that way of his—where he tilts his head down and looks up, as if wanting to make himself smaller. He has a terrible habit of making himself out to be less than he truly is.

“Right here, silly,” he giggles, but it’s not right. It’s a sad and blatantly performative sound—a failed attempt to dissipate Fernando’s concern. To anyone with the gift naivety, it might be convincing, but Fernando knows Lance better than that. He knows the good and the bad; the pride and the guilt. The little things that nobody else sees (except maybe Esteban, but Fernando tries not to think about that bastard too often).

He takes Lance’s hands in his palms, not missing the slight tremble. “Talk to me,” he says, trying to coax Lance out of his shell of indifference. It stings, but it’s necessary; like pressing down on a pinprick to stop it from bruising. Burying the pain will only hurt him more in the long run.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Lance shrugs, sweetly stubborn. He turns away and pulls his hands from Fernando’s grasp, and Fernando tries his best not to take it personally. “Besides, I probably wouldn’t have scored points, anyway.”

“Ay!” Fernando gasps suddenly, face serious. He grabs the hands back more firmly this time—he can be stubborn, too. “You don’t talk like that. Not to me.”

“Like what?” Lance giggles again, nervously, breathily; his eyes caught on their hands where they’re trapped together on Fernando’s thigh. “I’m just being realistic. It’s what everybody says.”

Fernando feels the bitter rage bubble again. “What who says?” he asks intensely while squeezing Lance’s hands tighter. Compliantly, Lance lets it happen; hands loose but unmoving in Fernando’s palms.

“Y’know…” he drawls, disappointedly casting his gaze to the phone discarded beside him on the bed. “Everybody.”

Fernando sighs internally; trying not to roll his eyes lest Lance interprets it the wrong way. He lets go of his hands to grab the item, quickly typing in Lance’s password. On the screen is the last thing Lance was looking at—searching his fucking name on Twitter. Idiot. It’s all cruel, and brutal; full of every nasty word that can spit on Lance’s identity.

“You need to delete this silly app. Full of people who don’t know what they’re saying…” he mutters, shaking his head and taking the initiative to delete it himself. He dreads the thought of all of his own ‘fans’ tearing Lance apart, as if he and Lance aren’t one and the same nowadays. An inseparable entity.

“It’s the same on every fucking app,” Lance says. He sounds annoyed, but at least that’s better than hiding himself away. “You can look on Instagram, or TikTok, or—”

Fernando gently grabs Lance’s jaw, tilting his face to force eye contact. “Then just look at me, yes? Nothing else. Just me, and you.”

He stares Lance down, watching him try to battle away the pain. Lance always does these tiny movements with his face that give everything away; nervous flicks of his eyes and sad twitches of his brows. There’s another attempt at a smile, but after a few moments, his facade cracks and quickly morphs into a frown. A sad, broken look; brows furrowing more and more until he chokes on a sob. The floodgates open, and like the flick of a switch, the sob turns into wet, hurried cries.

“Shhh,” Fernando soothes, quickly wrapping both arms around Lance and pulling him into his chest—making him feel small like he needs to sometimes. “It’s okay…” he whispers, stroking a hand up and down Lance’s sweat-sticky back, heaving with uneven cries. “You are okay.”

Lance shakes his head against Fernando’s neck, tears damp on his skin.

“No? Not okay?”

At that, he nods; a wordless but sincere admission.

“Okay. That’s okay.”

Fernando sits through it with him, holding him tight until the rapid, shameful sobs turn into slow chokes, then into quiet sniffles. The shake in his body slows to a slight tremble, like the purr of a cat, but certainly not so pleasant. More like a shivering kitten left out in the cold.

“Let’s get you out of these clothes, yes?” he whispers against Lance’s ear, tugging at his race gear. Lance nods with another wet sniffle, pulling away from Fernando’s neck to look him in the eye. Fernando could cry himself at the sight of him—all wet eyes and red cheeks, broken by the unfairness of a sport that doesn’t love him like he deserves. It doesn’t love him like Fernando does.

He tugs Lance around like an oversized dog that thinks it’s still a puppy, defying his stature to half-carry him to the bathroom. Lance is still distant, too tired to put up any fuss as Fernando sits him on the edge of the tub and undresses him piece by piece; whispering praise and gently kissing his skin as he goes until Lance is bare and shivering.

“Stand for me, baby,” he requests. It takes Lance a moment to register what he’s heard, but once he gets it, he stands up immediately on two wobbly legs; always so eager to please, even in moments like these. It hurts, knowing how desperately Lance wants to be good, and how a race like this makes him feel like he isn’t. But he’ll always be good—always Fernando’s good boy. So good that it doesn’t make sense why he’d want a cruel and tainted man like Fernando in the first place.

They shower, warm and steamy, with most of Lance’s weight resting on Fernando. But Fernando holds him, despite his own body being lethargic from the race. He massages Lance’s shoulders, and his flat chest where the impact of the seatbelts must ache from the crash. It’s part of the sport—it’s what they sign up for—but now, being with Lance, Fernando understands why his parents get so concerned every time he gets in the car. Every bump and collision of Lance’s makes Fernando consider turning to religion just to pray for him to get out in one piece.

“I’m sorry,” Lance whispers later; sitting on the bed as Fernando towel dries his hair. It’s longer now than it has been since they got together, curling up at his nape and getting caught in his eyes. Fernando brushes it away for him with a gentle, affirmative pat on the cheek.

“What you are sorry for?” he asks, stroking Lance’s jaw; a thumb rubbing back and forth on his pouty bottom lip.

“I shouldn’t be so…” he looks away, embarrassed. “Weak. Didn’t wanna bother you.”

Weak is the last word Fernando thinks of when he looks at Lance. He sees commitment—Lance’s hunger to succeed and pain when he loses. But never weakness. No, Lance might be the strongest man Fernando knows.

“Lance… the only thing that bothers me is when you lie to me. When you pretend you are okay,” he says with a degree of honesty he never knew he was capable of. It feels like Lance was put on earth to bring these things out of him—the good he didn’t know was there, nestled under his sheath of utter badness. “I would do this every day if I needed to.”

“Yeah?” Lance asks—quiet, melodic, and tender. A smile perks back on his face, small and hardly there, but there nonetheless. A real smile this time.

“Yeah. Anything you need.”

The smile grows, and Fernando knows they’ll be alright. Lance will come back stronger like he always does. Like the perfect boy he is.

#i don't usually write this stuff so it might not be the best #but it’s better being mediocre here than rotting in my drafts 🙏#strollonso #my fic #willing myself not to delete this immediately

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