Err, so I’m not sure what this is/why/where it came from…but here’s some Lewis Hamilton/Justin Bieber. What was I thinking? I have no idea.
It’s the smile that does it, the look then look away approach, the way his lips curve upwards into a bashful grin the moment his eyes come to rest on Lewis. No one else in the crowded room has been lucky enough to receive such attention, and Lewis feels vastly appreciated as the man of the hour pushes his way through the throng and pulls him into an enthusiastic embrace; “you’re here, man!” tumbling from his lips.
Lewis is here, of course.
Supporting a friend and all that. And who turns down the opportunity to hang out backstage at Madison Square Garden. The drinks are flowing, Jack Daniels smoky on his lips and music pulsing through the night.
Lewis’ shirt is open and he finds himself dancing, grinding. “I fucking love New York,” he yells over the noise. Warm hands settle at his waist and he leans back into the touch, rolling his hips in time with the song.
There is an entire world that he’s on the fringes of and will probably never capture for real. He feels close to it though, here. It’s intoxicating, he’d felt the thrill of it in his veins earlier this evening as he stood at the side of the stage, one man occupying it and eighteen thousand people singing and screaming. He tries to imagine what it would be like to have that for himself. Would it be the same as standing on the top step of the podium? Would it ever be enough?
“Hey, you still with me?” is whispered softly in his ear. “You disappeared there for a second.”
Something unspoken between them fizzes hot and enticing in the air.
They get out of there after that, away from the crowd and the hangers on, on the pretext of taking a breather. Lewis throws himself down on the sofa in the corner of the opulent private dressing room. Everything is white except for the sleek black floor lamps, a glass bowl full of perfect red apples sits on the dresser, a row of Cristal bottles lined up in silver buckets alongside it. As riders go, it actually seems pretty modest.
It starts with an exploration of each other’s recent tattoos, Lewis’ shirt discarded on the floor as Justin leans in and traces the outline of the lion on his chest, calloused fingers sweeping over his skin. They have the same tattoo artist, up in Toronto. The singer had asked and Lewis had recommended, and it had been in the back of his mind even back then, the hero worship. Lewis had bleached his hair and Justin had copied – and now they hang out whenever they can.
Now, they flirt on the edge of friendship and something else.
“How’s Barbara?” Justin asks, giggling to himself like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “I still can’t believe you’re dating my ex.”
Lewis smirks, letting himself be touched. “We’re not dating,” he replies, “not properly. And she’s a nice girl,” he pauses…“if you like girls.”
He considers this for a moment, eyes wide and face flushed as he climbs on top of Lewis, their eyes never leaving each other until both flutter closed as their mouths meet in a bruising kiss.
“Wanted this for years,” Justin whispers as he slips down to his knees, sliding the zipper open on Lewis’ pants.
Years, Lewis thinks, you’re barely out of your teens.
But there’s something irresistible about being so desired, so he leans his head back and lets it happen.
