Lewis/Sebastian + 17) Jewel? Thank you!
"Still, Vettel's had a tremendous career, especially early on," says one of the commentators. "A UCL championship would have been the crown jewel, of course, but the World Cup isn't too bad a consolation prize."
"He was out after the group stage that year, though, wasn't he?" says the other one. "And blimey, anyone could've told him, if you want to win the Champions League you need to leave Frankfurt. He turned down Liverpool at one point, if I remember correctly, and back when they would've paid him loads, too--"
Lewis mutes the broadcast and tosses the remote. Some stupid part of him wants to go on Twitter and @ the program, talk about what rubbish it is that they're harping on about Sebastian's apparent failures. It's his last fucking match, have some respect and all that. But it'd be stupid. Just give them more attention. And it would highlight that he himself isn't at the match, that he's watching it on the telly, which -- people don't really know about them like that. But some do. And Lewis doesn't want them thinking he's not supporting him, or something, just because he's days out from the Met Gala.
He'd asked Seb a million times: Are you sure it's okay if I'm not there? Until finally Seb, gently but with some annoyance, said: Lewis. I would tell you if it's not okay. You'll be at the retirement dinner, anyway.
Seb's team wins, at least. Seb doesn't score but he gets two assists. Lewis checks all the stats afterward and parses through what he understands. He texts, Proud of you. Love you. Call whenever if you'd like, I'll be up for a bit xx
He's in bed, showered and moisturized, when Seb Facetimes him.
"Lewwwwwis," he says immediately, flushed and way too close to the camera, his hair sticking to his face. He's a bit shitfaced, Lewis realizes, and takes a screenshot for posterity.
"Sebastian," he says. "Are you at your flat?"
"I'm in the locker room," Seb says. "Little drunk. Last one in. Told everyone I wanted to say goodbye to it. Did you know, I've always wanted to fuck you in a locker room?"
Jesus Christ. Lewis looks around, as though someone in his own flat might overhear, when there's only Roscoe snoring on his dog bed. "No, I did not know that. You should tell me more. Are you sure you're alone?"
"Locked the door myself," Seb says. "Staff know I'm in here, just not the reason obviously. Fuck." He makes a bitten-off little noise that Lewis recognizes instantly.
"You're touching yourself," says Lewis. Heat pools in his own gut; he rests his hand over his shorts. "Christ, you could barely wait for me to get on the line."
"Been hard for a minute," Seb says breathlessly. He's pink on the phone screen. "Tell me -- tell me what you'd--"
Lewis sits up and kicks the blanket off of himself, and starts to talk.