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So he was fucking someone else.
The news popped up in the group chat just as Franco checked his phone, still light-headed from training and a too hot shower. A big, fat LOL sat under the message, then a flood of jokes followed. For a split second, it felt like they were laughing at him. Of course they didn’t know.
He wiped a patch of fog from the mirror until his reflection appeared: flushed, tight-lipped, an offended boy. Beneath his left nipple, the mark was still there, a week old. Their last time. Middle of the night, as always, in that absurdly pristine penthouse.
A seven-time World Champion and his controversial young lover, everything that happened between them was a scandal. Franco always felt smaller there, younger, swallowed by quiet wealth and impeccable taste. Lewis wore privilege like inheritance, all old-money restraint, the son of the working class.
He still held a glass of wine, too tart, too expensive, when Lewis dropped to his knees. And Franco almost came undone just from seeing him like that. As if he weren’t the loudmouthed, overconfident kid who never knew his place.
Lewis kissed the inside of his thigh, reverent enough to make him dizzy. Franco’s fingers slid through the coarse texture of his dreadlocks. His gaze drifted to the ceiling, eyes fluttering shut. The small sound that escaped him came before he could stop it. Lewis’s soft laugh met it—warm, fond, steady hand on his thigh. It felt like a podium moment. A sweet, impossible victory.
Afterward, in that tender, disoriented hush, Lewis made him pasta and refused to let him help.
“All I need is your company.”
For a moment, they almost passed for a real couple—laughing at a comedy show, Franco perched half on Lewis’s lap, half on the counter, stealing bites from his plate.
“You got yourself dirty, Lewlew,” Franco teased, wiping a smear of sauce from Lewis’s mouth with his thumb.
Lewis stilled. The playfulness vanished.
“What?”
“Someone else used to call me that.”
“Who?”
Lewis pulled him close, pressed a kiss into his hair, lingered.
“It was a long time ago.”
Something rose in Franco then, something vital, something that wanted to speak, but he swallowed it. He never asked. Not in those few borrowed months he was allowed to touch him. Not after the sex that left him trembling and tearful without knowing why. Not over the dinners Lewis curated, the wines he chose, the life Franco only ever visited.
Instead, he played the brat, because he knew Lewis liked it. And the way he wanted him, under any terms, under any pretense, made Franco wonder how deep his daddy issues really ran. He told himself it was normal, the breathless "papi" murmured into the pillow, as if only in his first language could he be that undone. As if it wasn’t utterly pathetic, how much he ached for praise. How he still got off remembering Lewis’s voice—you feel so good, you sound so pretty, you’re gonna be the death of me. It almost felt worse than using his photos, that slow replay of Lewis’s hand on his shoulder in some gentle, meaningless gesture.
He never asked because he was afraid of the answers: why, how long, when it would end, how many others there are. What he did ask for was to be marked—and Lewis did.
Afterward, he forgot everything when Lewis took him to bed again, making him feel chosen. And he remembered again in the morning, when Lewis was gone and the maid served breakfast with a knowing smile.
There were texts from Paris afterward, brief, affectionate, until the news came in.
It was absurd how long he had wanted Lewis.
He’d looked for him in every one of his few lovers, starting with the older boy he lost his virginity to during the first month after leaving Argentina. He always said he was older, added a year or two whenever someone asked. He liked the idea of independence, of being a boy who didn’t need his mother to cook his lunch or do his laundry.
Older boys understood things. They had situationships and one-night stands, and they didn’t believe in love-until-death-do-us-part, especially when it was so obviously a lie.
It was stupid to have believed it anyway. That he was good enough. That he was the only one. That he was enough.
The word cut like a razor as he passed ten kilometres, running through Milan. The city was cold and hollow at night this time of year; the air slapped his face the moment he stepped outside. He couldn’t sleep unless he wore himself out first.
On the third day of ghosting, Lewis called. Franco couldn’t answer. He couldn’t act casual, pretend to be busy, ask about Paris like nothing had happened. He knew he would sound pathetic. He could already hear Lewis’s sigh, that calm, measured voice saying what Franco feared most: I’m sorry, but I never promised you anything.
After all, Franco was the one who never knew how to shut up. The one who leaned into overconfident flirtation, the kind that worked so well on people his own age. He felt safe behind that mask of bravado, pretending he’d never cried thinking about Christmas in Argentina, or spent sleepless nights replaying what he’d said, wondering whether Lewis thought he was an idiot. Pretending his heart wasn’t so fragile it scared him.
After all, it was his long tongue that had led him into that private jet, where Lewis made him a drink and sat opposite him, smiling, telling him to make himself at home. Franco had been afraid to touch anything—or to look at him.
And Lewis laughed.
Franco liked that most of all: how easily he could make Lewis laugh, whether he was being silly or not hardly mattered. Lewis had nearly snorted his drink through his nose on that flight. Franco kept wiping his sweaty palms on his cheap jeans, hoping Lewis wouldn’t notice, wondering if he ever did realize—
That Franco could drop to his knees and open his mouth right now. It would only take one word.
“I’m actually impressed by your rise, kid. Have I told you that?”
Franco felt the blush spread through him like fire.
“Not as impressive as yours, though.”
In London, Franco made an awkward joke about a date. Lewis made him go fully crimson by answering seriously, gently.
“I’m sorry, but not today.”
Before Franco could fully register what had just happened, Lewis’s fingers were there—soft, careful—pulling his collar down just a little, barely brushing the scar.
“Where did you get it?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Then I should give you a ride.”
In Lewis’s luxurious car they sat thigh to thigh, too close. Franco felt like he was suffocating, wrapped in Lewis’s scent, in his warmth.
The next time they saw each other, Lewis was kissing that scar.
Lewis followed him on Instagram, and a few too-hot evenings later Franco went to Argentina, got drunk with his childhood friends, and sent him a blurry picture of the scar—and everything surrounding it, down to his low-rise jeans.
wish you were here
He seriously wanted to die when he woke up the next morning and found fire under the photo, and the short reply:
impressive. having a hangover?
He spent a full hour writing a long apology, lying about meaning to send it to somebody else. Lewis replied with a short: don’t worry. i actually liked it. are you alright?
Chatting with him felt strange, thinking carefully about every joke, every reply to a story. All that bullshit that worked so well on people his age, because Franco assumed he was rather pretty and rather innocent-looking.
Sometimes, when it was evening in Argentina and deep night in Europe, Lewis asked him something abstract and they actually talked. About childhood, dogs, karting and movies. Franco sent photos of his parents’ house, promised to make him mate.
And pathetically imagined Lewis’s hands, holding him, while he fell asleep.
It was a party in Milan, one of those suffocating nights where the air felt like glue. Franco had just come back from Buenos Aires and already carried that familiar homesickness that always came once ambition dragged him too far again. He was always caught between going as far as he could and turning back to what he’d left behind.
Pierre talked nonstop. The city glittered below the balcony, music humming through the walls. English still felt hard to catch again, the driest of his three languages. Lewis’s language.
Lewis was somewhere here. He’d told him that, and Franco had replied cockily, maybe you’ll find me there. The thought of his presence made the ghost of fingers bloom against the scar at his collarbone, made him ache to feel them again. There—or lower.
“Dude, you need to relax,” Pierre said.
Franco smiled.
“I am relaxed. It’s just… Europe always makes me uneasy.”
Pierre glanced at a group of girls waving at them, then back at Franco.
“You want a joint?”
Franco laughed.
As pathetic as it was, he hadn’t even managed to find himself a situationship this time back home. He told himself it was because he was a celebrity now in Argentina, because he didn’t want anyone discovering his dirty little secret. The real reason made his stomach turn. Lewis, who found the time to talk about sports and fashion, as if that alone wasn’t enough to ruin him.
He smoked too much. By the time Pierre wandered off to flirt, the lights were already shimmering at the edges of his vision.
Franco recognized Lewis before he saw him.
His scent first, warm, familiar, and then the quiet certainty that whatever this was, it was already too late to pretend he didn’t want it.
“Weed? Seriously?” Lewis said.
“You want some?” Franco replied, drunk on his own boldness.
God, Lewis was handsome. As if Franco hadn’t spent all summer devouring every photo of him—lean muscle, effortless smiles. As if he didn’t know every tattoo by heart, couldn’t trace them blindfolded.
“I should tell you to stop,” Lewis said.
“I’m a grown man, you know.”
Lewis looked at him with a strange mix of gentleness and something like pity.
“I try to forget,” he said—and let him.
Let him guide his hand. Let him bring the joint up. Let Franco feel the softness of Lewis’s lips brush his fingertips. The weed sharpened everything. That touch slid straight down his spine, low and dangerous, almost pulling a sound from him.
Franco laughed when Lewis coughed.
“The last time I smoked weed, I was your age.”
Franco tilted his head, surprised by his own courage.
“So I guess I’m corrupting you,” he said lightly, then added in Spanish, low and teasing, “¿Eso te calienta, papi?”
He saw it immediately, how Lewis stilled, how his breath left him slow and careful, how his hand tightened on the railing. Franco looked away, suddenly ashamed of being so visible.
“What did you just say?”
“Nothing.”
“Franco.” A pause. “Look at me.”
He did, and fell straight into Lewis’s gaze.
“I said,” Franco murmured, steady now, “does it turn you on, daddy?”
Next, Lewis’s mouth was on his collarbone, following the scar as if hungry for it. His hands were everywhere, strong and sure. Franco’s back hit a sink, tile cold under his palms. Lewis was kissing him like he meant to take his name apart. Franco clawed at his blazer, tried to tear it off, until Lewis helped him, smiling.
The mirror behind them reflected everything: Lewis’s tattoos, the curve of his shoulders. Franco rocked against him, hard on hard, desperate, the pressure sharp enough to make him gasp.
“How far you wanna go?” Lewis whispered.
Franco didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The dizzying triumph of Lewis wanting him, kissing him, claiming him, short-circuited every coherent thought. All he could do was moan into Lewis’s lips, hips rolling shamelessly, hard on to hard on.
Lewis broke the kiss just enough to rasp against his mouth, voice low and filthy-sweet:
“Where’d all that bratty baldness go, pretty boy?”
The possessive grip on the back of his neck. The way Lewis rolled his hips up, mimicking the deep, punishing rhythm of actual fucking. It was too much. Franco’s whole body locked, spine arching, a broken whimper tearing out of him as he came hard in his briefs. Strongest orgasm of his short life.
When the room swum back into focus, Lewis was watching him with dark, delighted eyes.
“Last time I got someone off like this…” Lewis murmured, brushing sweat-damp hair off Franco’s forehead, “…I was your age.”
Franco’s lungs were still burning. He stared down at the obscene bulge still straining Lewis’s and something feral clicked inside him.
“Can I?”
The words came out wrecked.
“You don’t have to—”
Franco was already tearing at buttons, shoving denim and elastic down just enough.
“So fucking big,” he breathed with awe.
Lewis hissed through his teeth, forehead dropping to Franco’s shoulder, hips jerking involuntarily into the fist.
“Fuck—easy, baby.”
But Franco wasn’t listening. He stroked slow at first, then faster, twisting at the head the way he liked on himself. Lewis’s breathing turned ragged, wrecked little grunts punched out of him every time Franco dragged his thumb over the leaking slit. He couldn’t stop picturing it: Lewis flat on his back, thighs spread, looking up at him with those dark eyes while Franco sank down inch by torturous inch, riding him until they both broke.
He was hard again when Lewis came. And looked at him, lightly bit him on the nose, making Franco giggle.
Lewis was holding a bouquet—soft purple, pale lavender, cream, and deep green tones. Franco knew nothing about flowers, but the arrangement looked beautiful and expensive. Of course it did. Lewis never owned anything that wasn’t.
“You never told me which ones you like, so I picked them myself,” he said lightly.
Franco stood in the doorway, staring at him, the first words falling out before he could stop them.
“How do you even know where I live?”
“You once sent me your exact location,” Lewis said. “You were drunk. And I never would’ve used it if you’d answered my calls.”
“So you just came here. From Paris?”
Lewis sighed.
“Can I come in?”
It felt unreal, too surreal, even. Another miserable winter night in his cheap apartment, after a long day of training, rejection, and ignoring invites he didn’t want. Franco had been pitying himself, half-watching "The Office" while spooning pistachio ice cream straight from the tub. His hair was still damp, sticking to his temples, he hadn’t even bothered to dry it.
All that while imagining Lewis with someone else, calling sameone pretty, kissing another wrist, whispering to someone else to spread your legs.
“No,” he said finally, crossing his arms.
He felt exposed—barefoot, wearing only old training pants—while Lewis, as always, looked effortlessly perfect, draped in some sleek, thoughtful designer outfit.
“What happened?” Lewis asked.
“Nothing.”
“That’s not very mature, don’t you think?”
“I was mature enough for you to fuck me.”
Lewis’s smile was soft, unshaken. That made it even harder to hold the front, to resist the gravity of him, the calm, the warmth Franco still remembered too well. Desperate to keep his distance, to make him leave, Franco said,
“Go back to that fucking—”
Lewis laughed, unexpectedly amused.
“So that’s the reason? You actually believed that?”
Franco’s anger splintered like glass.
“Don’t laugh at me.”
Lewis’s eyes softened.
“I’m sorry,” he said, quieter. “I’ve missed you so fucking much, Franco.”
That was it. The crack in the dam.
Franco snatched the bouquet out of Lewis’s hand and flung it toward the couch without looking. He kicked the door shut hard enough to rattle the frame, and then Lewis was on him—body slamming him back against the wall, one thigh shoving between Franco’s legs, pinning him there. Lewis’s mouth crashed into his—open and wet.
Franco melted against the plaster. His knees buckled; Lewis caught him with a forearm under his ass and hauled him higher, grinding their hips together so Franco could feel every thick inch of him. Lewis broke the kiss only to drag his teeth down the side of Franco’s throat, biting hard enough to leave marks.
“Rude,” he breathed against skin, “leaving me standing in the hallway like some delivery boy. You’re gonna pay for that, pretty.”
Franco’s breath hitched.
Lewis lifted him like he weighed nothing, hands bruising his ass through his sweats, and carried him down the short hallway, mouths never separating. Franco’s legs wrapped around Lewis’s waist on instinct, ankles locking at the small of his back, grinding shamelessly the whole way.
Lewis dropped him onto the tangled sheets—unmade, still smelling like Franco’s lonely nights—and followed him down without breaking rhythm. Wrapped a fist around his cock, and stroked once, slowly, until Franco whimpered.
“Please—”
As if he couldn’t helped himself, Lewis ragged his open mouth down Franco’s chest—teeth catching a nipple, tongue flicking, then lower, lower.
“What do you want, baby?”
Franco looked at him for a long moment, the seven-time world champion between his legs. Pride dissolved in seconds. The thought was filthy, intoxicating.
“Fuck me raw” he said.
Lewis’s smiled almost feral.
“Are you sure?”
“If you haven’t been with someone else, then prove it.” he said and added with a smirk. “Please, papi.”
And of course Franco thought about how stupid it was, while lying on his bed with his legs open, waiting for Lewis to find the lube in his nightstand. Why would Lewis care about some boy he was fucking for the last few mouths. But he did care, enough to come to Milan with that stupid bouquet.
And Lewis watched his face the whole time, every flutter of lashes, every bitten lip, while he worked his fingers, curling it just enough to graze the spot that made Franco’s cock jump and leak. He was so fucking good at this, of course, Lewis had to be the best at everything.
“There’s no one else like you, Franco.”
“More,” Franco gasped.
His fingers were stretching, scissoring, twisting until Franco was moaning openly. Lewis leaned forward again, kissed the inside of Franco’s thigh—soft, almost tender—then bit down hard enough to leave teeth marks.
“Get up here,” he ordered. “Ride me.”
Franco scrambled up on shaky legs, straddling Lewis’s hips. His hands braced on Lewis’s shoulders—nails digging in—for balance. Lewis guided his cock with one hand, the other steady on Franco’s waist, and lined them up. The blunt head pressed against Franco’s stretched rim. He was so fucking big.
“Slow,” Lewis said, even though his voice was wrecked. “Let me feel you.”
Franco sank down.
The first inch burned—perfect, filthy burn—then more, and more, until he was seated fully, Lewis buried to the hilt. Franco’s head dropped forward; forehead pressed to Lewis’s. He was trembling all over, stuffed so full he could feel every heartbeat pulsing inside him.
Lewis groaned low in his throat, hands clamping on Franco’s hips like he was afraid he’d float away.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re perfect.”
Franco rode him until there was nothing left in his legs. He was begging Lewis to touch him, let him come, but Lewis was cruel enough to deny him that luxury.
He just took over.
Hands bruising Franco’s ass, he started thrusting up—sharp, deep, relentless—meeting every roll of Franco’s hips with a punishing snap. The bed creaked under them. Skin slapped skin. Franco’s moans turned into broken cries.
“Please, papi, touch me. I…”
Lewis gently brushed his hair back, kissed his forehead.
“No, baby, you’re gonna come from my cock only.”
And made him.
Shoulder to shoulder, they lay on bed while Franco read aloud the long list of his rumored lovers.
“No", "Bullshit", "A few times", "Who’s that?", "That was a long time ago,” Lewis replied between names, his voice lazy and unbothered.
When he finally finished—come drying on his abs, still seeping from his hole—Lewis smiled and kissed his nose, his favorite spot.
“I’m sorry, Franco,” he murmured. “I’m twice your age. I have a lot of past.”
“Just tell me I’m the only one”, Franco thought. “Just tell me it’s forever.”
He felt even more exposed now, emptied and trembling on the edge of tears. Lewis was still watching him with that soft gaze, refusing to let him go, even though they were both messy, sticky, a little disgusting.
“I have a lot of past too, you know. Maybe more than you,” Franco said instead.
Lewis laughed and kissed him again. Then he propped himself up on one elbow, glancing around the small room.
“So this is how you live. It’s… cozy.”
Finally sobering from the sweet fog, Franco realized again where they were—Lewis in his bed, in his shoebox of an apartment. The heap of clothes on the chair, the posters on the wall. He was glad he’d taken down the ones with Lewis’s face not long before they started sleeping together.
“No, it’s not. It’s a shithole.”
“I lived in worse.”
Franco doubted Lewis truly grasped how wide the gulf was between them. That his gifts cost more than Franco’s rent. That Franco flew low-cost around Europe while Lewis had his own jet. What soothed him, sometimes, was knowing Lewis had earned all that money himself.
“At my age,” Franco said quietly, “you were two points away from beating Räikkönen in the World Championship.”
Lewis kissed his shoulder.
“Everything’s ahead of you. Are you hungry?”
Franco wasn’t. But the thought of Lewis cooking for him was too sweet to refuse, so he lied and went to shower.
In the bathroom mirror, he barely recognized himself—hair wild, eyes unfocused, a dark mark blooming on his shoulder where he’d asked Lewis to bite him. He’d asked Lewis to come inside, too. He would have asked him to root himself there, to stay forever, if such things were possible.
His throat burned. The list of names came back to him, cold and inevitable. One day he’d just be another line on it, a two- or three-month boy. He should send Lewis home, he told himself. That was what an adult would do. No need to fall for post-sex gentleness, for the ritual of feeding your too-young lover as if care could undo what had already happened.
When he came back into the kitchen, Lewis was standing shirtless by the fridge, the tattoo on his back catching the light. Franco stopped short, caught between tenderness and disbelief, wondering how anyone survived losing something like this.
“Jesus, kid,” Lewis said. “How do you live like this? All I could find was peanut butter and jelly.”
Franco wanted to ask "When will you leave?", "Is it forever?", "Am I the only one?"
Instead, he said,
“Don’t call me a kid after you were just balls-deep inside me.”
Lewis turned, genuinely startled.
“Then what should I call you?”
“I don’t know,” Franco said softly. “You tell me, Lewlew.”
Lewis smiled faintly but didn’t answer. He turned back to the window, staring out at the empty street, eyes bright with something unguarded. Franco watched his handsome profile—the strong jaw, the softness at the corner of his mouth—and felt the ache return.
The silence stretched. Franco couldn’t stand it.
“I’ll make you maté,” he said. “You said you wanted to try it.”
He reached for the jar of yerba on the counter. He could feel Lewis’s gaze on his back but didn’t turn.
“Look,” Lewis said finally. “I know we should’ve had this conversation a long time ago. I’m sorry I hurt you. It’s just…”
Franco bit into his palm, hard, grounding himself. He wouldn’t cry while Lewis ended it. He wouldn’t give him that.
“You asked me about my exes,” Lewis went on quietly. “The truth is… I’ve never felt this way with anyone else. Not since Nico.”
Franco turned. The spoon slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor as he let Lewis see his shining eyes.
“I’m not good at this part,” Lewis said. “You’re not just another name on a list, Franco. I want this to last. And I haven’t wanted that in... God, forever.”
Franco exhaled shakily and let Lewis pull him in, burying his face against his chest, breathing him in.
“I never felt this either,” Franco whispered. “So what are we going to do now?”
Lewis kissed his hair, slow and sure.
“It’s actually quite simple.”