fuuucccckkk
thinking about Lance and Fernando, after the China GP, sitting in their hotel room together. The team have long since come to understand that whatever those two have is complicated. They won't name it, and hell, they shouldn't have to. But now, Lance is sitting on the bed, his fingers working into the sun-damaged skin of his idol his teammate his lover Fernando's hand. He massages the muscles, tries to help prevent the threat of nerve damage that looms over them both, over the entire team.
It was a bad race, the date they gathered tells the engineers nothing they didn't already know. The car is a fucking death machine that will end not just the racers' careers if it's not fixed. So Lance does what he can. He buys top of the line compression gloves, wrist braces, joint creams, anything that might help. While Fernando protests it all, sits alone after every practice session with retirement on his mind, he still indulges Lance. He has to, Nando can't stand to see the way Lance's eyes will dull with a resigned acceptance of refusal, the younger man so used to it after a lifetime.
When Lance is done with his massage, the cream absorbed into Fernando's skin, he'll pull the hand of his everything his lover his soulmate teammate up to his mouth and let his lips linger. It's a ritual at this point, and Fernando soaks it in, turning his hand over to cup Lance's jaw, fingers brushing over the stubble that's grown over the last few days. He likes when Lance grows out his beard, even if Lance himself doesn't. Fernando takes the joint cream from mi amor ml todo mi encanto Lance with his other hand, setting it on his lap so he can use both hands to guide Lance closer, pulling and nudging until the younger man is settled between Nando's legs.
Lance can feel each breath Fernando takes against his back, can feel the lack of muscle on the left side, how the skin caves in slightly, and he relaxes finally.