Fic: Interconnection
Pairing: Mark Webber/Sebastian Vettel
Rating: T
Word count: 2789
Synopsis: Post-Bahrain 2013. Mark arrives in Germany for sponsorship duties.
Disclaimer: Didn’t happen, never will.
For geri_lea
Interconnection
Mark was in a foul mood. Being sent on a publicity mission just days after Bahrain was not his idea of good timing and, to top it off, the Infiniti guys wanted to film the segment in Germany. Of course they did. Sebastian was the guy they really wanted, and right now Mark wished the sponsor company had just been honest about it. Saying they wanted both drivers to promote their cars was a load of shit, especially when Sebastian was an ‘honorary performance director’, or whatever this year’s wanky title was.
At least Red Bull knew not to completely bullshit him, as evidenced by all those photos DC tweeted from Sochi today. David had been sent in Mark’s place - an easy way to keep the peace - resulting in jovial shots of Sebastian and DC mucking about on the ice, shaking hands with important people and taking a partial test lap of the future Russian Grand Prix circuit. All this while Mark schlepped his way to Sebastian’s home country.
Sebastian actually lived in Switzerland, but the younger driver had yet to invoke any of the country’s neutral philosophies. Mark knew this better than anyone.
A rush of blood to his head made Mark a little light-headed as he fiddled with the keycard to his hotel room. Finally, after three attempts and a forceful push, the door opened, and he was finally able to enter, once again able to shut out the outside world. His list of goals wasn’t a long one: shower, minibar and bed. It was already ten, local time.
Within minutes he was in the shower, and as he stood under the jets of hot water, Mark wondered why he was so irritated at having missed out on the Russia trip. After all, he wasn’t even sure whether he’d still be around for the inaugural 2014 race. Everyone kept speculating about Porsche and Le Mans, or even his complete retirement from motorsport. Hell, most days he asked himself why the fuck he was still putting up with Sebastian’s bullshit. A deeper anger flared again, coalescing with the steam from the scalding hot water. The fake apology over the Multi-21 fiasco from Malaysia…Sebastian’s statement last week saying he’d do it all over again because Mark didn’t deserve to win…
Mark slammed his hand on the tiled wall in front of him. He was not going to drown in this spiral again. Not before the alcohol portion of the evening, at least.
With the sound of blood pounding in his ears, it was no surprise that Mark didn’t hear the doorbell the first two times it was rung. When he registered the third ring, he merely groaned and chose to ignore the interruption, knowing he hadn’t ordered room service or any other extra amenity. However, when the faint doorbell gave way to what sounded like heavy knocking on the main door, he was forced into action. Not bothering to turn the taps off, he exited the shower recess, grabbed a towel to wrap around his waist and prepared to berate whoever was being so fucking rude at this time of night.
Normally Mark would’ve checked the peephole, but time was of the essence. Or so he thought, anyway. When he opened the door, he immediately had the sense that time was playing tricks on him, because there was no way Sebastian Vettel could’ve arrived from Russia already.
Unless DC hadn’t tweeted in real time.
‘Are you fucking serious?’
Mark didn’t bother waiting for an answer before slamming the door in Sebastian’s face. Sebastian had looked sheepish only for a millisecond before his expression turned into one of shock, a transition probably explained by his realisation of two things: a) Mark was furious at being disturbed, and b) Mark was dripping wet.
Fuming, Mark returned to his shower, now intent on scrubbing away the dirty feeling that second place gave him. It was insidious, a doubt that had eaten away at him over the years. The reality of Sebastian standing there, in a Red Bull jacket of all things, threatened to emasculate him.
Mark didn’t need to be in Germany to feel that he was in Vettel territory, he thought bitterly. Seb was everywhere, overshadowing him no matter the time, no matter the place.
*
Sebastian tried the keycard to his room again, to no avail. As usual, when he didn’t get his way, frustration morphed into sheer determination, an instinct that had served him well throughout his illustrious career, but was now failing him. He’d been told by the front desk that there was some sort of electrical glitch that was making the card-readers play up tonight, and if all else failed, he could perhaps enter through the adjoining room while their engineer was fixing the issue.
He was tired from the Sochi visit, and hadn’t wanted to deal with Mark’s sulkiness. Yet ten minutes ago, trying his teammate’s door had seemed to be a forgivable short-term inconvenience. That is, until Mark had opened the door and immediately reacted with full-blown resentment. Sebastian could and couldn’t believe it - he knew the team orders situation was fucked, but despite that, Mark had at least extended icy civility whenever they simply had to interact.
Sebastian kicked at his luggage and leant on the door of his room. He had reneged his Malaysia apology, which in his eyes was better than pretending that he wouldn’t take the same measures if the situation was replicated. Mark had been obstructive in the past. Look at the end of last year - it was almost as if Mark didn’t want Sebastian to get his third WDC. In Sebastian’s mind, Mark didn’t get any joy from helping Red Bull win the Constructor’s Championship. Why was it always about beating him?
Sebastian also wasn’t going to apologise for winning in Bahrain. Seventh for Mark wasn’t great, but it was partially a result from the grid penalty handed down for that Toro Rosso crash in Shanghai, which obviously hadn’t been Sebastian’s fault. It was this fact that spurred Sebastian to try Mark’s door again. Hopefully Mark would be fully dressed this time. It had been unnerving to see him in a towel like that - Sebastian didn’t even want to bring up the visual, lest he find himself mulling it over.
He tried a combination of doorbell and knocks. Letting him in was going to be the only way to get rid of him.
This time when Mark opened the door, it was Sebastian who spoke first, but not after taking a moment to read Mark’s expression. His eyes looked dead, beyond weary, a sadness that aged him another five years.
‘My key is fucked. I need to use the interconnecting door.’
It was as if Mark couldn’t be bothered glaring at him. Slowly, Mark opened the door wider, revealing that he was dressed in a t-shirt and boxer shorts. At least he’s dry, Sebastian thought, the exception being his mussed up hair.
‘Can’t get anywhere without using me first, huh?’ Mark muttered, stepping out of the way so Sebastian was able to drag his luggage through.
Sebastian tried to ignore the comment, biting his lip as Mark shut the door. But he couldn’t ignore it. Discomfort took over his chest, making him feel sick to his stomach. It wasn’t as if guilt and humility were completely foreign to Sebastian - it was more like he was dually surprised that Mark sounded more sad than angry and also that he actually felt for Mark in this moment.
Sebastian stood at the foot of the bed, the queasiness having caused him to halt. Mark, on the other hand, leant on the wall opposite him, slightly to Sebastian’s right, near the television cabinet.
‘If this is a pit stop, it’s a bloody slow one,’ Mark added, wanting to prompt Sebastian to leave. He wasn’t even sure if the interconnecting door would open without a regular key, but damn, he’d jimmy the thing open if he had to.
Much to Mark’s displeasure, Sebastian let go of his luggage and instead sat himself down on the bed.
‘You would’ve done the same thing,’ Sebastian accused, voice surprisingly even. He didn’t want Mark to counter with that surly look he reserved for whenever he thought Sebastian was being an immature little shit, which was often.
Mark was exasperated. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ He sighed again, crossing his arms across his chest. ‘Whatever. Get lost already.’
Sebastian gripped the edge of the mattress, though it was impossible for all his ire to be absorbed by the action. ‘Multi-12. You would’ve pretended not to understand.’
The older driver closed his eyes and literally banged his head against the wall behind him. People were always citing ideas about going to one’s ‘happy place’ in times of distress. But Mark struggled to imagine anywhere that was truly Seb-free. If he left Formula 1, his career would be eviscerated by the legend that was Sebastian Vettel. Leaving didn’t fix anything. It followed that imagining a ‘happy place’ seemed foolish. He wanted to be a realist.
‘You said I didn’t deserve it,’ Mark said through gritted teeth, now opening his eyes and staring hard into the blue eyes of the German. ‘Well, likewise, Seb. You didn’t deserve it either.’
Sebastian snorted, instinct preventing him from not retaliating. He could feel his smirk turning into a snarl. ‘Is that why I wasn’t allowed any cake?’
The question made Mark laugh, an honest laugh that made Sebastian feel juvenile. Sebastian had been conveniently absent when the team had presented Mark with a cake to celebrate his 200th grand prix. Christian had made sure of it. The same went for Red Bull’s tribute video for the occasion.
‘Worried about cake? Who are you? Jenson?’ A smile tugged at Mark’s lips - it was probably hysteria-induced, he thought. ‘What next? You’re going to complain about me having dinner with Alonso?’
Something irrational was stirring inside Sebastian, and he didn’t like the internal conflict one bit. Tired of all this bullshit, he flopped back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. Jenson had been majorly pissed off at Checo on Sunday, yet whatever beef the Mclaren boys had, it was small fry compared to him and Mark. Mark and him. Him and Mark. He couldn’t remember the correct order in English - sentence construction and pronouns and all that.
‘You can’t just leave me.’
Sebastian’s statement was delivered with such a bizarre mix of anger and resignation that both men remained silent for at least fifteen seconds.
Mark didn’t want to channel the darkness again, didn’t want to remind himself that everything in this world belonged to Sebastian. Including him.
‘Seb, stop talking shit and go to your room.’
Sebastian felt paralysed now, the statement now an admission of weakness that he wished he’d never let slip. He stared at the ceiling until his eyes hurt, until he began to see impressions of light morphing and then disappearing.
Mark couldn’t take it anymore. He stepped forward and kicked Sebastian’s shin.
Not even a flinch - not from the kick, anyway. ‘I mean it, Mark. You can’t leave.’
‘Yeah, you always get what you want.’ Mark took another step, this time side-stepping to the side of the bed so he could tower over his counterpart.
Sebastian, however, couldn’t even bear to look directly at Mark. Slowly, panic was begin to creep into Sebastian’s consciousness. He thought, too, of Lewis and Nico, Alonso and Massa, Kimi and Romain. He didn’t appreciate the idea of drafting anyone into his team, not even Kimi, who he was great friends with. This formula was working, and Mark was part of it, whether either of them enjoyed it or not. Upsetting the set-up could seriously fuck up his future plans.
‘If I always get what I want, then you’re staying,’ Sebastian announced, though his voice betrayed him and shook ever so slightly.
Enough for Mark to notice.
‘You gonna have some sort of panic attack?’ It was half-taunt, half-concern.
Sebastian snapped to attention and locked eyes with Mark. His breathing did feel like it was getting more laboured, but he resented the insinuation that he would have true anxiety over this partnership.
Too bad Sebastian couldn’t form a verbal response. It prompted Mark to think about sitting down next to him, not necessarily as a gesture of comfort but perhaps more of a reminder that this was Mark’s room.
Mark stayed standing. ‘Mate, you’re on my bed.’
Sebastian’s chest was now seized with fear. He’d driven on that Sochi circuit today. It hadn’t been complete yet, what with the Winter Olympics construction that was still underway, but it was still exhilarating. A new track to conquer. But to drive there next year with some other guy as his teammate?
Maybe he was monster, he thought. He liked the status quo. Because the status quo meant he had some control as to Mark’s fate. It kept Mark down and Seb elevated.
‘Seb?’
Suddenly, the fear heightened exponentially and Sebastian couldn’t breathe. Fast on the way to hyperventilating, he sat up and reached for the one person who could anchor him right now. He grabbed at Mark so forcefully that Mark was jerked forward onto the bed, the older man feeling as though his arm was going to be ripped from the socket.
It all happened so quickly. Mark couldn’t believe it: he’d stumbled onto the bed, and somehow his mind had told him to act this way, to kneel next to his panicked teammate and envelop him in a side-on hug. It was instinct. He held Sebastian tight, as if to expel the panic from him in this way, and when Sebastian’s heaving breaths became sharper instead of easier, Mark found himself cradling him more affectionately, kissing the top of his head before he could even rationalise what he was doing.
Sebastian stilled at the kiss. Mark too was frozen, muscles tensing around his teammate, keeping both of them in shock. The silence was punctuated by the younger man’s irregular breaths.
‘Mark.’ Sebastian whimpered, not daring to look anywhere but straight ahead.
‘What? What the fuck do you want now?’ It was a reply whispered into Sebastian’s ear.
Sebastian had leant into Mark just after the words were said, with Mark’s lips grazing Sebastian’s ear. It was frighteningly intimate. It scared Mark that he didn’t want to let go, and it scared Sebastian that this vice-like embrace was a comfort. It was a foreign warmth, a strong one that made you want to stay for fear of never finding it again.
Sebastian’s mouth was dry. ‘I’m not gay.’
‘Neither am I, mate.’
‘Okay.’
Mark thought of Hanna. Sebastian thought of Ann. It was easier than thinking about their own respective partners.
It took another ten seconds for Mark to release his hold and then clamber off the bed. Heart pounding in his chest, Mark backed up against the side wall, wishing the lights weren’t on - he could see Sebastian sitting there and he knew that moments earlier he’d been right there with him, holding him like he cared. He was going to break out into a cold sweat just from reliving it.
Alarmed, Sebastian ran a hand through his hair and mumbled something hurriedly in German. A curse in the truer sense of the word, Mark guessed, like a hex to eradicate whatever fucked up mojo the two of them had just conjured.
Sebastian stood up once his breathing was under control, still making sure not to look over at Mark. ‘Don’t be late tomorrow,’ he finally said in English. ‘Infiniti will be pissed.’
And with that, he was out the door with his luggage - out the door he came in. He slumped against the hallway wall, sliding down until he hit the ground. His hands were shaking. The hallway felt like it was distorting, skewing on one angle to the next. If this was reality, it was downright screwed up, because liking Mark’s touch was the furthest thing from sane.
He hadn’t realised it before, but he needed Mark in a way that wasn’t right.
*
Mark decided to follow through with steps two and three: alcohol and then bed. He needed to forget the way his mind and body had just betrayed him with Sebastian. But he couldn’t forget. There was no way he could forget. For the better part of three hours before he passed out, he downed mini-bottle after mini-bottle, all while staring at the interconnecting door in the semi-darkness and wondering whether it would open if either of them tried.
Rating: T
Word count: 2789
Synopsis: Post-Bahrain 2013. Mark arrives in Germany for sponsorship duties.
Disclaimer: Didn’t happen, never will.
For geri_lea
Interconnection
Mark was in a foul mood. Being sent on a publicity mission just days after Bahrain was not his idea of good timing and, to top it off, the Infiniti guys wanted to film the segment in Germany. Of course they did. Sebastian was the guy they really wanted, and right now Mark wished the sponsor company had just been honest about it. Saying they wanted both drivers to promote their cars was a load of shit, especially when Sebastian was an ‘honorary performance director’, or whatever this year’s wanky title was.
At least Red Bull knew not to completely bullshit him, as evidenced by all those photos DC tweeted from Sochi today. David had been sent in Mark’s place - an easy way to keep the peace - resulting in jovial shots of Sebastian and DC mucking about on the ice, shaking hands with important people and taking a partial test lap of the future Russian Grand Prix circuit. All this while Mark schlepped his way to Sebastian’s home country.
Sebastian actually lived in Switzerland, but the younger driver had yet to invoke any of the country’s neutral philosophies. Mark knew this better than anyone.
A rush of blood to his head made Mark a little light-headed as he fiddled with the keycard to his hotel room. Finally, after three attempts and a forceful push, the door opened, and he was finally able to enter, once again able to shut out the outside world. His list of goals wasn’t a long one: shower, minibar and bed. It was already ten, local time.
Within minutes he was in the shower, and as he stood under the jets of hot water, Mark wondered why he was so irritated at having missed out on the Russia trip. After all, he wasn’t even sure whether he’d still be around for the inaugural 2014 race. Everyone kept speculating about Porsche and Le Mans, or even his complete retirement from motorsport. Hell, most days he asked himself why the fuck he was still putting up with Sebastian’s bullshit. A deeper anger flared again, coalescing with the steam from the scalding hot water. The fake apology over the Multi-21 fiasco from Malaysia…Sebastian’s statement last week saying he’d do it all over again because Mark didn’t deserve to win…
Mark slammed his hand on the tiled wall in front of him. He was not going to drown in this spiral again. Not before the alcohol portion of the evening, at least.
With the sound of blood pounding in his ears, it was no surprise that Mark didn’t hear the doorbell the first two times it was rung. When he registered the third ring, he merely groaned and chose to ignore the interruption, knowing he hadn’t ordered room service or any other extra amenity. However, when the faint doorbell gave way to what sounded like heavy knocking on the main door, he was forced into action. Not bothering to turn the taps off, he exited the shower recess, grabbed a towel to wrap around his waist and prepared to berate whoever was being so fucking rude at this time of night.
Normally Mark would’ve checked the peephole, but time was of the essence. Or so he thought, anyway. When he opened the door, he immediately had the sense that time was playing tricks on him, because there was no way Sebastian Vettel could’ve arrived from Russia already.
Unless DC hadn’t tweeted in real time.
‘Are you fucking serious?’
Mark didn’t bother waiting for an answer before slamming the door in Sebastian’s face. Sebastian had looked sheepish only for a millisecond before his expression turned into one of shock, a transition probably explained by his realisation of two things: a) Mark was furious at being disturbed, and b) Mark was dripping wet.
Fuming, Mark returned to his shower, now intent on scrubbing away the dirty feeling that second place gave him. It was insidious, a doubt that had eaten away at him over the years. The reality of Sebastian standing there, in a Red Bull jacket of all things, threatened to emasculate him.
Mark didn’t need to be in Germany to feel that he was in Vettel territory, he thought bitterly. Seb was everywhere, overshadowing him no matter the time, no matter the place.
*
Sebastian tried the keycard to his room again, to no avail. As usual, when he didn’t get his way, frustration morphed into sheer determination, an instinct that had served him well throughout his illustrious career, but was now failing him. He’d been told by the front desk that there was some sort of electrical glitch that was making the card-readers play up tonight, and if all else failed, he could perhaps enter through the adjoining room while their engineer was fixing the issue.
He was tired from the Sochi visit, and hadn’t wanted to deal with Mark’s sulkiness. Yet ten minutes ago, trying his teammate’s door had seemed to be a forgivable short-term inconvenience. That is, until Mark had opened the door and immediately reacted with full-blown resentment. Sebastian could and couldn’t believe it - he knew the team orders situation was fucked, but despite that, Mark had at least extended icy civility whenever they simply had to interact.
Sebastian kicked at his luggage and leant on the door of his room. He had reneged his Malaysia apology, which in his eyes was better than pretending that he wouldn’t take the same measures if the situation was replicated. Mark had been obstructive in the past. Look at the end of last year - it was almost as if Mark didn’t want Sebastian to get his third WDC. In Sebastian’s mind, Mark didn’t get any joy from helping Red Bull win the Constructor’s Championship. Why was it always about beating him?
Sebastian also wasn’t going to apologise for winning in Bahrain. Seventh for Mark wasn’t great, but it was partially a result from the grid penalty handed down for that Toro Rosso crash in Shanghai, which obviously hadn’t been Sebastian’s fault. It was this fact that spurred Sebastian to try Mark’s door again. Hopefully Mark would be fully dressed this time. It had been unnerving to see him in a towel like that - Sebastian didn’t even want to bring up the visual, lest he find himself mulling it over.
He tried a combination of doorbell and knocks. Letting him in was going to be the only way to get rid of him.
This time when Mark opened the door, it was Sebastian who spoke first, but not after taking a moment to read Mark’s expression. His eyes looked dead, beyond weary, a sadness that aged him another five years.
‘My key is fucked. I need to use the interconnecting door.’
It was as if Mark couldn’t be bothered glaring at him. Slowly, Mark opened the door wider, revealing that he was dressed in a t-shirt and boxer shorts. At least he’s dry, Sebastian thought, the exception being his mussed up hair.
‘Can’t get anywhere without using me first, huh?’ Mark muttered, stepping out of the way so Sebastian was able to drag his luggage through.
Sebastian tried to ignore the comment, biting his lip as Mark shut the door. But he couldn’t ignore it. Discomfort took over his chest, making him feel sick to his stomach. It wasn’t as if guilt and humility were completely foreign to Sebastian - it was more like he was dually surprised that Mark sounded more sad than angry and also that he actually felt for Mark in this moment.
Sebastian stood at the foot of the bed, the queasiness having caused him to halt. Mark, on the other hand, leant on the wall opposite him, slightly to Sebastian’s right, near the television cabinet.
‘If this is a pit stop, it’s a bloody slow one,’ Mark added, wanting to prompt Sebastian to leave. He wasn’t even sure if the interconnecting door would open without a regular key, but damn, he’d jimmy the thing open if he had to.
Much to Mark’s displeasure, Sebastian let go of his luggage and instead sat himself down on the bed.
‘You would’ve done the same thing,’ Sebastian accused, voice surprisingly even. He didn’t want Mark to counter with that surly look he reserved for whenever he thought Sebastian was being an immature little shit, which was often.
Mark was exasperated. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ He sighed again, crossing his arms across his chest. ‘Whatever. Get lost already.’
Sebastian gripped the edge of the mattress, though it was impossible for all his ire to be absorbed by the action. ‘Multi-12. You would’ve pretended not to understand.’
The older driver closed his eyes and literally banged his head against the wall behind him. People were always citing ideas about going to one’s ‘happy place’ in times of distress. But Mark struggled to imagine anywhere that was truly Seb-free. If he left Formula 1, his career would be eviscerated by the legend that was Sebastian Vettel. Leaving didn’t fix anything. It followed that imagining a ‘happy place’ seemed foolish. He wanted to be a realist.
‘You said I didn’t deserve it,’ Mark said through gritted teeth, now opening his eyes and staring hard into the blue eyes of the German. ‘Well, likewise, Seb. You didn’t deserve it either.’
Sebastian snorted, instinct preventing him from not retaliating. He could feel his smirk turning into a snarl. ‘Is that why I wasn’t allowed any cake?’
The question made Mark laugh, an honest laugh that made Sebastian feel juvenile. Sebastian had been conveniently absent when the team had presented Mark with a cake to celebrate his 200th grand prix. Christian had made sure of it. The same went for Red Bull’s tribute video for the occasion.
‘Worried about cake? Who are you? Jenson?’ A smile tugged at Mark’s lips - it was probably hysteria-induced, he thought. ‘What next? You’re going to complain about me having dinner with Alonso?’
Something irrational was stirring inside Sebastian, and he didn’t like the internal conflict one bit. Tired of all this bullshit, he flopped back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. Jenson had been majorly pissed off at Checo on Sunday, yet whatever beef the Mclaren boys had, it was small fry compared to him and Mark. Mark and him. Him and Mark. He couldn’t remember the correct order in English - sentence construction and pronouns and all that.
‘You can’t just leave me.’
Sebastian’s statement was delivered with such a bizarre mix of anger and resignation that both men remained silent for at least fifteen seconds.
Mark didn’t want to channel the darkness again, didn’t want to remind himself that everything in this world belonged to Sebastian. Including him.
‘Seb, stop talking shit and go to your room.’
Sebastian felt paralysed now, the statement now an admission of weakness that he wished he’d never let slip. He stared at the ceiling until his eyes hurt, until he began to see impressions of light morphing and then disappearing.
Mark couldn’t take it anymore. He stepped forward and kicked Sebastian’s shin.
Not even a flinch - not from the kick, anyway. ‘I mean it, Mark. You can’t leave.’
‘Yeah, you always get what you want.’ Mark took another step, this time side-stepping to the side of the bed so he could tower over his counterpart.
Sebastian, however, couldn’t even bear to look directly at Mark. Slowly, panic was begin to creep into Sebastian’s consciousness. He thought, too, of Lewis and Nico, Alonso and Massa, Kimi and Romain. He didn’t appreciate the idea of drafting anyone into his team, not even Kimi, who he was great friends with. This formula was working, and Mark was part of it, whether either of them enjoyed it or not. Upsetting the set-up could seriously fuck up his future plans.
‘If I always get what I want, then you’re staying,’ Sebastian announced, though his voice betrayed him and shook ever so slightly.
Enough for Mark to notice.
‘You gonna have some sort of panic attack?’ It was half-taunt, half-concern.
Sebastian snapped to attention and locked eyes with Mark. His breathing did feel like it was getting more laboured, but he resented the insinuation that he would have true anxiety over this partnership.
Too bad Sebastian couldn’t form a verbal response. It prompted Mark to think about sitting down next to him, not necessarily as a gesture of comfort but perhaps more of a reminder that this was Mark’s room.
Mark stayed standing. ‘Mate, you’re on my bed.’
Sebastian’s chest was now seized with fear. He’d driven on that Sochi circuit today. It hadn’t been complete yet, what with the Winter Olympics construction that was still underway, but it was still exhilarating. A new track to conquer. But to drive there next year with some other guy as his teammate?
Maybe he was monster, he thought. He liked the status quo. Because the status quo meant he had some control as to Mark’s fate. It kept Mark down and Seb elevated.
‘Seb?’
Suddenly, the fear heightened exponentially and Sebastian couldn’t breathe. Fast on the way to hyperventilating, he sat up and reached for the one person who could anchor him right now. He grabbed at Mark so forcefully that Mark was jerked forward onto the bed, the older man feeling as though his arm was going to be ripped from the socket.
It all happened so quickly. Mark couldn’t believe it: he’d stumbled onto the bed, and somehow his mind had told him to act this way, to kneel next to his panicked teammate and envelop him in a side-on hug. It was instinct. He held Sebastian tight, as if to expel the panic from him in this way, and when Sebastian’s heaving breaths became sharper instead of easier, Mark found himself cradling him more affectionately, kissing the top of his head before he could even rationalise what he was doing.
Sebastian stilled at the kiss. Mark too was frozen, muscles tensing around his teammate, keeping both of them in shock. The silence was punctuated by the younger man’s irregular breaths.
‘Mark.’ Sebastian whimpered, not daring to look anywhere but straight ahead.
‘What? What the fuck do you want now?’ It was a reply whispered into Sebastian’s ear.
Sebastian had leant into Mark just after the words were said, with Mark’s lips grazing Sebastian’s ear. It was frighteningly intimate. It scared Mark that he didn’t want to let go, and it scared Sebastian that this vice-like embrace was a comfort. It was a foreign warmth, a strong one that made you want to stay for fear of never finding it again.
Sebastian’s mouth was dry. ‘I’m not gay.’
‘Neither am I, mate.’
‘Okay.’
Mark thought of Hanna. Sebastian thought of Ann. It was easier than thinking about their own respective partners.
It took another ten seconds for Mark to release his hold and then clamber off the bed. Heart pounding in his chest, Mark backed up against the side wall, wishing the lights weren’t on - he could see Sebastian sitting there and he knew that moments earlier he’d been right there with him, holding him like he cared. He was going to break out into a cold sweat just from reliving it.
Alarmed, Sebastian ran a hand through his hair and mumbled something hurriedly in German. A curse in the truer sense of the word, Mark guessed, like a hex to eradicate whatever fucked up mojo the two of them had just conjured.
Sebastian stood up once his breathing was under control, still making sure not to look over at Mark. ‘Don’t be late tomorrow,’ he finally said in English. ‘Infiniti will be pissed.’
And with that, he was out the door with his luggage - out the door he came in. He slumped against the hallway wall, sliding down until he hit the ground. His hands were shaking. The hallway felt like it was distorting, skewing on one angle to the next. If this was reality, it was downright screwed up, because liking Mark’s touch was the furthest thing from sane.
He hadn’t realised it before, but he needed Mark in a way that wasn’t right.
*
Mark decided to follow through with steps two and three: alcohol and then bed. He needed to forget the way his mind and body had just betrayed him with Sebastian. But he couldn’t forget. There was no way he could forget. For the better part of three hours before he passed out, he downed mini-bottle after mini-bottle, all while staring at the interconnecting door in the semi-darkness and wondering whether it would open if either of them tried.