#second. i need to find that schumilton gc fic i wrote i just remembered it existed

[milflewis]

schumilton + "Just gonna leave those here 👀"

Sebastian laughs, leaning into him, knocking elbows, warm and tipsy and flushed, when he sees who is ringing Mick. Mick hip checks him away, face growing hot.

Sebastian steps back, hands up, grinning. “I’ll say you a seat,” he says, obviously and obnoxiously delighted with himself. “I owe Daniel a drink anyway.”

The door to the bar opens as he slips in before swinging closed again, the low thrum of chatter and music muffled.

“This is Mick,” Mick says, out of habit, licking his lips. Lewis’s laugh is high and warm and crackling across the line. Mick doesn’t know where he is right now but he knows he’s not in England. The thought aches a little, tucked away behind his ribs. He inhales.

“Hi Mick,” Lewis says and Mick can hear Roscoe bark in the background. Somehow that grounds him, letting him think past the fuzz that is fogging his brain from the cocktails Sebastian pried him with in the hotel bar during dinner.

“Hi.”

He winces. Hi. Christ.

Just talk to him, Esteban had said, a few months ago. What’s the worst that can go wrong?

Lance had laughed so hard he had fallen out of his seat at Mick’s expression.

“I’m calling because I heard the tire test went well?”

“Yes.” Mick clears his throat, once. Twice. “Yeah, it was great. I know —“

He moves down the street as the bar door opens again and people spill out, laughing and loud. He walks down a few paces, resting his head against the cool brick of the building next door, out of the stream of light coming from a streetlamp.

“I know the car isn’t where anyone wants it to be but — well.”

“It’s better than a Haas?”

“So much fucking better, mate. It’s not even funny.”

He flexed his fingers around the edge of his phone as Lewis laughs again in his ear, closer this time as if his phone is pressed right up against his face.

“That’s a plus, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, watching cars drive slowly past, headlights on.

“I saw your post,” Lewis says suddenly and it runs through Mick like the shock of the car spinning before snapping back under control in your hands.

“You did.”

Lewis hums. Mick doesn’t know him well enough to know if it that’s a good sound. He hopes it is. He thinks it is.

“Nice pictures,” is all he says. “The one with Seb was — good. You suit our car.”

Mick can tell how deeply he breathes in. It’s the first time he’s heard Lewis acknowledge the car is his, and not just the team’s. He can understand the disconnect even if that isn’t how he drives.

“And your — your hair, man.” Lewis sounds impossibly fond now, heat lining the undertone of his words in that way that he does that drives Mick insane.

“My hair?” Mick reaches his free hand up to run his fingers through it. He’s been growing it out. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing.” Lewis pauses. “It looks good — I hadn’t realised it’s gotten so long. You’re always wearing those damn caps.”

Mick laughs, grinning up at the sky. He rolls his shoulders, loosening them. “You told me I shouldn’t keep cutting it.”

Mick wants to press a thumb into the corner of Lewis’s eye where the smile he knows he has is gathering there.

“I did.”

He wants to buy him a drink and ask him questions about the car, some the same ones from before after he drove in the sim but mean something different now that he’s been in the actual one twice now. He wants to crowd into a booth with Sebastian on one side and Lewis on the other and have them bicker all night as Mick watches, joining in whenever he wants. He wants to give Lewis his coat when they walk back to the hotel because for a man that is often cold, he rarely dresses for the weather.

Lewis is not in England right now.

Mick is good with wanting and not having so he only smiles, slipping his hand into his pocket, and says, quiet, “Seb and Daniel are waiting for me. Thank you for calling.”

There’s a beat of silence before, “Thanks for picking up. Tell Daniel that he’s a dick for ignoring my texts and tell Sebastian that I know why he picked the Senna car and that I’m not falling for it. He’ll know what I mean.”

Mick laughs. “Will do.”

“I’ll be talking to you.” Lewis sounds tired. Where are you, Mick wants to ask. Not with me, he knows.

“Yeah, yeah.” He starts walking back to the bar. “Bye, Lewis.” It takes a moment for his phone to click in his ear, Lewis hanging up.

He grabs the door as a pair of teenagers wander out, sneakers white and pristine, jackets boxy and colourful. They look cool — the kind of style Lewis wears sometimes — cooler than Mick ever was at that age, or now if he’s being honest. They don’t look at him, nodding their thanks, before heading off, debating pizza or noodles.

He waits a second before heading in, holding the door with an elbow as he opens up Instagram, tapping into his profile to delete the post.

The caption was stupid and drunk Sebastian fueled but it did get Lewis to call him so he can’t bring himself to regret it, even if he does have three missed calls from his sister and several texts comprised only of exclamation points and thirty one unreads from the groupchat he has with the Prema guys with the first one reading: MICKOLAS SCHUMACHER U WHORE u did NOT!!!!!!!!!