Chapter Text
There are certain truths about Lewis Hamilton that Charles has always accepted without question.
Lewis commands attention without asking for it. Walks into a room, and the air changes, conversations pause, heads turn. It's not arrogance - Lewis doesn't demand that reaction, doesn't play for it. It just happens. The gravity of seven world championships, of being an icon that transcends the sport itself.
Charles has watched it for years. The way interviewers lean forward when Lewis speaks. The way photographers fight for angles. The way fans scream his name with a desperation that borders on religious.
Everyone wants something from Lewis. His attention, his approval, his downfall. To be him or to beat him or to simply exist in his orbit for a moment.
Charles tells himself he's different. That working with Lewis at Ferrari is about learning from a legend, about bringing home championships for the team.
They're teammates now. Friends, even. Lewis is easier to know than Charles expected. Generous with advice, quick to laugh at Charles's terrible jokes, surprisingly willing to be vulnerable about the pressure they're both under.
But there are boundaries. Lines Charles doesn't cross because some people exist in a space you're not meant to touch.
Lewis Hamilton is one of those people.
Or so Charles thought.
--
The hotel in Barcelona is nicer than it needs to be for pre-season testing. Ferrari doesn't do things halfway. Charles gets a suite with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, drops his bags by the door, and immediately wants to collapse into bed.
The flight was long, the jet lag is settling in, and they have an early start tomorrow. Three days of testing to shake down the new car to see if all the winter development has paid off.
Charles unpacks methodically. Hangs his team kit, sets out his training clothes for the morning, plugs in his phone. The routine is soothing, familiar.
He orders room service - grilled chicken, vegetables, nothing that will sit heavy in his stomach overnight. Eats while scrolling through his phone. The usual pre-season buzz on social media, fans excited about testing, speculation about which teams have made the biggest gains.
There are photos of Lewis arriving at the track earlier today. He'd flown in separately, some commitment in London he couldn't miss. In the photos, he's wearing all black, sunglasses hiding his eyes, that unconscious elegance in the way he moves even through a crowd of photographers.
Charles locks his phone and finishes eating.
By ten PM, he's showered and in bed. The room is quiet, comfortable. He should sleep easily.
He doesn't.
There's a restlessness under his skin, the kind that comes before a new season. Anticipation mixed with nerves, the knowledge that everything they've worked for comes down to this.
Charles closes his eyes and tries to relax.
That's when he hears it.
A thump from the room next door. Not loud, just - there. Then another sound. Muffled, indistinct.
Charles frowns. The walls must be thin. He hadn't noticed before, but now he's aware of it, aware that someone is in the room next to his.
Another sound. This time, it's clearer. A voice, male, saying something Charles can't make out.
Then, laughter. Light, easy.
Charles rolls over, pulling the pillow over his head. He doesn't need to hear his neighbor's conversation. Doesn't care.
The pillow muffles most of the sound. Charles settles into it, willing himself toward sleep.
Minutes pass. Maybe five, maybe ten. The pillow is getting warm, slightly suffocating. Charles adjusts it, lifting one edge to let in some air.
That's when he hears it clearly.
A moan.
Charles freezes.
It's unmistakable now, even muffled by the wall. Someone in the next room is probably having sex.
Charles should put the pillow back. Should block it out completely, ignore it, go to sleep.
He doesn't move.
Another moan, longer this time. Deeper. The kind of sound that's impossible to misinterpret.
Charles's pulse quickens despite himself. It's just biology, he tells himself. Hearing sex will provoke a reaction. It doesn't mean anything.
But he doesn't put the pillow back over his ears.
The sounds continue. Rhythmic now, building. The bed next door is moving - Charles can hear it, the faint creak of springs, the subtle thump of a headboard against the wall.
And the moans. God, the moans.
Whoever's in there isn't being quiet. Isn't holding back. The sounds are raw, the kind of noises someone makes when they're completely lost in pleasure.
Charles's cock stirs.
He tells himself to stop listening. Tells himself this is invasive, wrong, that he should respect his neighbor's privacy.
But the sounds keep coming and Charles keeps listening.
There are two voices now. One deeper, breathless, saying something Charles can't make out. And the other-
The other is higher. Desperate. Making these broken little sounds that go straight to Charles's dick.
The bed is really moving now. The rhythm is faster, more urgent, and the person making those higher sounds is getting louder.
"Fuck," someone gasps next door. Clear enough that Charles hears it perfectly. "Right there-"
Charles's breath catches.
He knows that voice.
No. There's no way. It can't be-
"Harder," the voice says, and Charles's entire world narrows to that single word because he knows that voice, has heard it a thousand times in team meetings and press conferences and casual conversations.
That's Lewis Hamilton in the room next door.
Lewis Hamilton is having sex ten feet away from Charles, separated only by a wall that might as well not exist.
Charles sits up slowly, pillow falling away, every nerve ending suddenly awake.
The sounds are clearer now without the pillow. Much clearer. And they're-
Lewis is loud. So much louder than Charles ever would have imagined. The control Lewis maintains everywhere else, that careful composure he wears like armor, is completely gone. He's moaning openly, desperately, making sounds Charles has never heard from him.
"Yes, fuck, just like that-"
Charles's cock is fully hard now, pressing against his boxers, demanding attention.
This is insane. This is Lewis. His teammate. His friend. He shouldn't be getting turned on by this.
But he can hear everything.
The slap of skin on skin. The creak of the bed, rhythmic and relentless. Lewis's voice, wrecked and wanting, begging for more.
And under it all, another voice. Younger, Charles thinks. Breathless. Saying things Charles can't quite make out but can imagine well enough.
Someone is fucking Lewis Hamilton. Right now. And Lewis is loving it.
Charles's hand moves to his cock before he makes a conscious decision. He palms himself through his boxers, just once, and has to bite back a groan.
This is wrong. He should stop. Should put the pillow back, turn on music, anything to block this out.
He doesn't.
Instead he listens. Listens to Lewis fall apart, piece by piece. Listens to the exact moment when whoever's fucking him hits the right angle because Lewis's moan goes high and broken, almost a sob.
"God, yes, don't stop-"
Lewis sounds desperate. Sounds like he needs this, craves it. And Charles-
Charles wants to be the one making him sound like that.
The thought arrives fully formed, impossible to ignore. Charles wants to be in that room instead of this one. Wants to be the one Lewis is moaning for, the one reducing him to these desperate pleas.
He didn't know Lewis was into men. Had never even considered it. Lewis had just dated women publicly. But clearly that wasn't the whole story.
And clearly Lewis likes to take it.
The realization sends heat flooding through Charles's body. Lewis Hamilton, seven-time world champion, probably the most powerful man in every room, likes to be fucked. Likes it enough to get this loud, this desperate.
The bed next door is slamming now, headboard hitting the wall in a steady rhythm that Charles can feel in his own mattress. Lewis is moaning continuously, these breathless little cries that make Charles's grip tighten on himself.
He shouldn't be doing this. Shouldn't be touching himself while listening to his teammate. But he can't stop.
Can't stop imagining what Lewis looks like right now. If he's on his back or on his hands and knees. If his eyes are closed or if he's watching his partner. If his tattoos are flushed with heat, if there are marks on his skin.
"Fuck, Franco-"
Charles's hand stills.
Franco?
His brain struggles to process through the haze of arousal. Franco. Franco Colapinto. The Williams driver. The kid who's-what, twenty-three? Twenty-four at most?
Lewis Hamilton is in there getting fucked by Franco Colapinto.
The image solidifies in Charles's mind. Franco, young and eager and probably barely believing his luck. Lewis, letting him, wanting him, moaning his name.
Something hot and ugly twists in Charles's gut. Not quite jealousy - he has no right to be jealous - but something close to it.
"Franco, please, I need-"
Lewis sounds wrecked. Completely undone. And he's begging Franco for it.
Charles's hand moves again, rougher now. He's fully committed to this, to listening, to getting off on the sounds of his teammate being fucked by someone else.
The rational part of his brain knows this is a line he can't uncross. That tomorrow he'll have to see Lewis, work with him, pretend he doesn't know what he sounds like in the throes of pleasure.
But right now he doesn't care.
Right now all he cares about is Lewis's voice, broken and desperate and so fucking loud.
"Right there, fuck, right there-"
Lewis is close. Charles can hear it in the pitch of his moans, the desperation in his voice. He's begging now, actual words tumbling out between gasps.
"Gonna come, fuck, I'm gonna-"
Charles strokes himself faster, matching the rhythm of the bed next door, imagining it's him making Lewis sound like this. Him making Lewis desperate and loud and completely undone.
"Franco, fuck, Franco-"
Lewis comes with a cry that Charles feels in his bones. High and broken and absolutely shameless, moaning Franco's name like it's the only word he knows.
Charles comes too, spilling into his hand, biting his lip hard enough to taste blood to keep from making a sound.
The comedown is immediate and brutal.
Charles lies there, hand sticky and uncomfortable, heart racing, and tries to process what just happened.
He jerked off to the sound of his teammate having sex. With Franco Colapinto, who's barely old enough to legally drink in the United States.
The guilt should be overwhelming. Should make him sick with shame.
It's not.
Instead, Charles feels something else entirely. Something possessive and dark that he doesn't want to examine too closely.
Because Lewis Hamilton, untouchable icon, apparently isn't so untouchable after all.
And Charles wants him in a way that has nothing to do with admiration anymore.
--
The shower is cold. Punishing. Charles stands under the spray and tries to scrub away what he just did, what he just heard.
It doesn't work.
Because now he knows. Knows Lewis takes it. Knows he gets loud, gets desperate, begs for it. Knows he fucks drivers, despite what everyone thinks.
Knows he sounds like that when he comes.
Charles gets out of the shower and dries off mechanically. Gets back into bed. The room next door is quiet now, just muffled conversation he can't make out and doesn't try to.
He should sleep. Early start tomorrow. Three days of testing. He needs to be sharp, focused.
Instead he lies awake and thinks about Lewis.
Lewis who is beautiful in a way everyone acknowledges but no one is allowed to want. Lewis who apparently likes younger drivers. Lewis who sounds like sin itself when he's being fucked.
Lewis who is in the room next door, probably marked up and satisfied, wrapped around Franco Colapinto like he has every right to be.
The weird feeling returns, stronger this time.
Charles has never been good at sharing. Not drives, not victories, not attention. He's competitive to his core, has built his entire career on refusing to settle for second place - if it wasn’t for Ferrari.
And now he knows Lewis is available. That the untouchable icon can be touched after all.
By the wrong fucking person.
Franco Colapinto is a kid. Talented, sure, but a kid nonetheless. He doesn't deserve Lewis. Doesn't deserve to hear those sounds, to see Lewis come undone, to have Lewis moaning his name.
Charles does.
The thought should shock him. Should feel presumptuous and wrong.
It doesn't.
Because Charles Leclerc doesn't do anything halfway. When he wants something, he goes after it with everything he has.
And he wants Lewis Hamilton.
Not as a teammate. Not as a friend. Not as someone to admire from afar.
He wants Lewis in ways that if said aloud would culminate in Britain as a nation being scandalized. Wants him desperate and loud and begging. Wants him making those same sounds but for Charles instead.
Wants him to belong to Charles in a way he clearly doesn't belong to Franco.
It's going to be a very very long season.