Sophisticated
title: sophisticated
author: dustywillow
pairing: richard hammond/james may
rating: R
word count: 2,799
disclaimer: they're never mine, sadly.
notes: a (poorly filled) prompt for tommyboybbi. it got a bid off-track. first fic in the Top Gear fandom.
James got a call in the late afternoon from the studio.
“The car’s here.”
The sun was just starting to sink from its mid-day position in the center of the sky. James had a habit of squinting into the sun rather than combat it with shades, and he took a quick drive with the radio turned down, keeping simple speed limit until he could get to the track.
There is was. He stood on the grass at the edge of the pavement, hand in his jacket pockets, staring at a jet-black beauty. As he moved closer, he could see his reflection in the glossy paint. Grey hair, tossed and frizzy in a less-than-elegant way in the wind, squinty eyes (again), long legs fitted in shoddy weekend jeans. Was he really that old? Another day in the life of James May? No. He was going to climb into a car most people would never be able to afford in their lifetime, drive it to its limits, and leave that day feeling like a ten-year-old again. Opposite of, well, old.
He wasn’t completely jazzed about the car when he heard about it, but when he saw it, it was gorgeous. A pleasant surprise. It wasn’t all chrome and metallic, jagged and light; it was elegant, aged, like a good brandy, with creams and oaks and a weight of quality. Nothing like Jeremy always wanted, flash and speed. Of course, that was why it was James’ car to have today.
He ran his fingers over the door handles, smooth, erasing the wrinkles in his reflection. The keys were curled in his fist, and from looking at the fresh black leather seats inside, he kind of wished there would be a wooden boat whistle attached to the key ring, and a sweet glass of champagne in his hand. So much for feeling like a ten-year-old. He slid into the chair, the seat pushing back on his shoulder blades with a comfortable pressure. The dials had a soft yellow flow of moonlight, mixed with the wood (real, sanded wood, not the plastic American kind) of the panels and the black mica and leather gear knob that had a pleasant crunch to it when James squeezed his palm to it.
He pictured himself wearing a sleek suit, his hair slicked back, foxy silver (should he try that for the next show?), not playing himself as a childish adult trying to compete with Hammond’s boyish good looks. James sat in the car, breathing in the classy air, crystals and Rolex, thinking about how he was when he first started on the show. He wore the suits, he was charming, and daresay, maybe even handsome. And then the two chimpanzees he worked with made him strip down and stick twigs into anthills like them. Bastards.
He mentally slapped himself and turned on the engine. It purred at him, like a content panther, stretching its enormous paws for a leisurely run. He started out at a decently slow pace. Oh god, it was smooth, like a good whiskey. He took it around the track a few times, admiring the knobs and buttons, mineralesque, carved and shining in the dash. He sailed around the corners, knowing every dip, rock and turn of the track. Then he revved the engine. An excited moan, from both the engine and the man. It was heavy and guttural. He pressed the petal flat, and the car arched forward, James’ back curling further around the curves in the leather seat, fingers tightly wrapped on the wheel. His stomach lurched, lagging a split second before actual time, a heavy weight sinking onto his bladder pleasantly. The faster we went, his ears popped, and all he could hear was his tight breathing and the background hum of the engine, pumping, threading gasoline through its veins.
James pushed for top speed. His teeth crushed together, a throb in his throat every time he pulled into another gear. Almost there. The car peaked, James’ ass clenched, he jerked the gear knob, and hit the brakes, screeching with release as the car slid sideways into a halt. He hadn’t taken a breath in fifteen seconds.
Good lord, that was a good ride. There was only one thought on his mind.
“Richard, mate, you have to see this car.”
Richard Hammond walked out to the track sluggishly, rubbing his eyes with a sleepy grin, as if he has just rolled out of bed, despite the sun being well on its way down, sunken partially into the horizon. His hair was sticking up at odd angles, and he had a stupid turtleneck sweater on that only he could make look good. Unbelievable.
James tried to flatten his hair embarrassingly, even though it was his best mate, for chrissakes. Hammond’s seen him in much worse condition.
Hammond wasted no time in examining the car. James stood back, watching the man feel the curves of its body. There were no words or conversation necessary - they could use their eyes and just the metal stallion to communicate. Richard was admiring the arch of the wheel well, and James stood beside him. He stared at himself again absentmindedly in the black mirror of the car. Richard traced a circle around the head of James’ reflection with his fingers, almost erasing the wrinkles as James had tried to do.
“I’m old.” James sighed.
“Bullocks, mate, at least you aren’t Jeremy. He’s like a dinosaur already, with lint stuck on its head.”
“No, I’m really being serious.”
“Let’s take a drive.”
James started the engine’s purr again, the two men leaning deeply into the seats and listening for a moment. As before, they only needed the sounds and feels. James took it for a good, slow lap or two, staring straight out onto the paved course, his hands firm on both sides of the wheel. He couldn’t even look at Hammond. Was he really still thinking about that age thing? Why is this bothering him so much? The heavy, awkward silence was starting to set in, even between them, and James pushed the car up in speed. He could feel the questioning glances Hammond was giving him.
James all of a sudden hated Richard. He wanted to crash the car, eject Hammond out, him and his doe eyes and perpetually fit body, his little sweet grins and impeccable clothing, not ugly shirts like James’, making him look like an aged buffoon next to the immortal Mars that was Richard Hammond.
He was pulling hard on the gear box, taking corners like he really meant to turn the car over in the field.
“James.”
He skidded to a hard stop, thunking into a standstill.
“Mate, I don’t know what’s wrong…”
James just shook his head and forced a smile. Of course nothing was wrong; he was being simply idiotic and jealous of absolutely nothing. He switched into gear again.
Richard put his hand over James’, covering the gear knob. It was a comforting gesture, calm, and he felt the soft weight of Richard’s fingers as he shifted. It wasn’t the first time Hammond had touched him. The first few times were always when they had been at the pub, Richard’s hands feeling for James’ arm for support, a towering (yet reachable) shoulder to lean on, a few brief fingers on James’s neck. Then it was at James’ place, when they were sitting around on his couch. Richard leaned in for a kiss, a short, unanticipated kiss, as unquestioned as it was casual in a way. James didn’t have a habit of going around kissing his mates, but it was so easy, so mutual between Hammond and himself. They were good friends. It was so much easier than going on dates with girls he met, skipping the whole getting to know someone, since Hammond already knew every detail about his life. Plus, nowadays, if James even got a date, he could now boast the ‘rich and successful’ card, but most of the time James and the girl both walked away feeling like that date was a complete waste of time. James wasn’t the most attractive, and girls don’t exactly search for car-savvy men, all blokes were like that, and much more good-looking at that. With Richard it was just natural, oh-so-casual, just like taking a sip from his beer glass. Just a try, knowing your mate wouldn’t turn away. But never Jeremy, of course, knowing he’s picky enough putting a dirty teacup to his mouth, none-the-less James May.
James started to lighten up a bit, enjoying the corners of the track more, a quiet, soft piece of time to just drive with Richard.
“You know, I think I’ll start slicking back my hair.”
“Oh no, not like one of those ruddy car salesmen, James - “
“No, no! Like, Humphrey Bogart.”
Richard pressed his lips together and combed back James’ wild hair.
“Yeah, guess I could see it.”
Richard’s thumb traced around James’ ear, sliding around his jaw line, sagging just a bit, giving him the subtle look of sophistication at profile. James kept on driving, Richard kept on looking at James. James felt ridiculous earlier, thinking he could actually do anything bad to Hammond, not with the way he made James feel so at ease. Richard slid sideways in his seat, placing little kisses along James’ neck. He almost curled around James’ arm like a koala bear, nuzzling ever more invitingly. James certainly wasn’t opposed to this - liked it even - but he still needed to concentrate on pulling the gear and rounding corners.
“Hammond, I still have to -“
“Just drive.”
A command. From Hammond. James had to obey, raising his eyebrows as Richard started to pick at the collar of James’ shirt. He kept his forehead safely tucked under James’ chin. Richard had always wanted to discover what was under that collar, and of course he had seen James shirtless, but he wanted to know exactly what his subtle, curly chest hair felt like. How absurd, feeling a man’s chest hair. But James had to admit, the tiny prickling of Richard’s emerging whiskers were a new thrill, a feel he’d never experienced before. Slowly, Richard undid a button on James’ shirt. James’ head throbbed with blood, and his ears rang. Hammond had never gone that far, to start…unclothing him. James pushed harder on the petal. Richard’s fingers peeked through his shirt, and it shocked him. His hands weren’t plump and fleshy, like a woman’s, but firm, like the leather in the car. James imagined holding Hammond’s hand would be quite like holding the steering wheel. He didn’t know why he was thinking about that. He tried to concentrate again on the quick turns, pulling his arms almost in a full circle to clip the corners of the track.
Richard flattened his palm against James’ now exposed chest. It was smooth as sanded oak. His stomach was firm, and textured from many sunburns and rough-housing as a young man. Fresh leather. He looked at the line James’ body made in the seat, from heavy, wide shoulders, powerful steering forearms, and chiseling slightly down towards his hips. So different. No hourglass shape, no fleshy, silky skin, no bulging hips. They were solid, concentrating towards, well, what was most important to a man, like chrome pipes and valves from the engine. The tips of his fingers started to pull down the lip of James’ jeans, aching to follow the strong hip bones down.
James’ breathing was sharp, his ears popped again as he only heard ringing and the engine, but felt Richard’s breath on his skin. His face was practically in James’ lap, manically maneuvering around his head to get to the gear box. His stomach had gone rigid at Hammond’s touch, drawing in long breaths from his diaphragm. This was nothing either of them expected. He was still, completely still. He was afraid he would frighten Richard, make him sit upright and stare straight ahead again. James was begging him in his mind to stop, for chrissakes, but every nerve screamed for him to continue.
He never noticed he was stiff; it was like being hard while sleeping, something automatic and unaware. He supposed it happened whenever he drove a good car, racing blood to his whole body, slamming a foot on the clutch, or clenching a steering wheel, excited. But oh, he noticed it now, the tight pressure of his jeans releasing to just a thin layer of cotton. He yanked on the gear knob, skidding the car to a stop, both men jerking forward, then smashing into the seats, lashing from eighty to naught in a split instant.
Richard’s head was just hovering above James’ crotch, gripping his thighs during the whiplash. James was staring forward, his hands still on the wheel, mouth slightly gaping and staring ahead. Freshly exposed air was nipping at his penis, flesh exposed from the flap in his boxers. Hammond had noticed it, and gingerly touched the hard skin. Hot flashed through James’ veins. It had been a long time, a very long time since he had been touched. By a man? Never. With one swift tug, Richard fully exposed James.
He drew in a sharp breath through his teeth. It was cold, a stimulant. Richard wrapped one hand around the side of James’ thigh, the other on James’ cock. It was different than his own, than holding himself, and Richard suddenly didn’t know what to do. He decided to fill his mouth with James.
James didn’t know where to put his hands. They flew off the steering wheel and twisted themselves into Richard’s stupid sweater. Richard had no idea what he was doing, there were no male instincts for sucking a cock, but the warmth of it was simply magnificent to James. Then his tongue started, and his wet mouth, and slow bobbing. God. There was an excitement, a thrill of a first, the first time they had connected in that way. Feeling Richard’s muscular neck, brown hair in James’ fist, softer than he ever imagined, the sound of a guttural moan of pleasure from the man in his lap. It wouldn’t be long. A first was never too long. Richard tasted the precum, sour and hot like a sip of brandy.
James’ stomach clenched again, and his thighs quivered. Hammond only had to start licking once, twice, and barely a third when James pushed his foot hard against the brake pedal, non-functioning with the car in park. Richard pulled back, shocked by the burst of salty, sticky liquid. It was too much at once. James didn’t mind - he didn’t think he could either - and pressed into the seat, still shaking and drawing in open breaths. Oh god, oh god. What happened.
Richard was amazed and confused as well, and looked to a recovering James for advice. They simply stared at each other, dumbstruck, and James leaned forward to kiss that little grin spreading on his face. Maybe to stop it, because he still hated the way Richard could look so good, and terrified that he wanted it for his own.
James buttoned his shirt again, rubbing his mess off the seat with his sleeve, knowing it was fucking uncomfortable but he’d change later. He wanted a fag desperately, so he shut off the still-purring engine, stumbled out of the car-stopped sideways in the middle of Hammerhead -and pulled out a pack from his jacket, turning his back to the car. And Richard. The fuck, the fuck, the fuck. Hammond was soon next to him. He just passed him the pack, both men staring at the resilient grass, the dusk now fully settled around them.
“Sophisticated.”
“What?”
“Sophisticated. Not old. You’re not old.”
What, was he trying to poke fun at him? Suck his cock and then try to make it all better by joking? James was angry, confused, even more angry, wasn’t even sure how he could look at Richard after this. What the fuck did they just do?
“Is this some pity call, poor James, can’t be Richard Hammond, good-looking little Hammond-“
“Jesus fuck, James. You’re like fucking James Bond. Okay? Just cool, and classy, and fucking manly, and-and why do you think I fancy you so much?”
A pause. James took a long drag on his cigarette. Richard Hammond, Richard Hammond fancied him. He was his best mate, a man, a damn handsome man who wore stupid turtlenecks and laughed too much and had such big eyes and he was just perfect. Perfect. And James wasn’t hateful anymore, he was only jealous, realized he was only jealous because he thought he’d never have him.
James just took hold of Richard’s hand, and it felt just like he thought, a leather steering wheel of a gorgeous car.
author: dustywillow
pairing: richard hammond/james may
rating: R
word count: 2,799
disclaimer: they're never mine, sadly.
notes: a (poorly filled) prompt for tommyboybbi. it got a bid off-track. first fic in the Top Gear fandom.
James got a call in the late afternoon from the studio.
“The car’s here.”
The sun was just starting to sink from its mid-day position in the center of the sky. James had a habit of squinting into the sun rather than combat it with shades, and he took a quick drive with the radio turned down, keeping simple speed limit until he could get to the track.
There is was. He stood on the grass at the edge of the pavement, hand in his jacket pockets, staring at a jet-black beauty. As he moved closer, he could see his reflection in the glossy paint. Grey hair, tossed and frizzy in a less-than-elegant way in the wind, squinty eyes (again), long legs fitted in shoddy weekend jeans. Was he really that old? Another day in the life of James May? No. He was going to climb into a car most people would never be able to afford in their lifetime, drive it to its limits, and leave that day feeling like a ten-year-old again. Opposite of, well, old.
He wasn’t completely jazzed about the car when he heard about it, but when he saw it, it was gorgeous. A pleasant surprise. It wasn’t all chrome and metallic, jagged and light; it was elegant, aged, like a good brandy, with creams and oaks and a weight of quality. Nothing like Jeremy always wanted, flash and speed. Of course, that was why it was James’ car to have today.
He ran his fingers over the door handles, smooth, erasing the wrinkles in his reflection. The keys were curled in his fist, and from looking at the fresh black leather seats inside, he kind of wished there would be a wooden boat whistle attached to the key ring, and a sweet glass of champagne in his hand. So much for feeling like a ten-year-old. He slid into the chair, the seat pushing back on his shoulder blades with a comfortable pressure. The dials had a soft yellow flow of moonlight, mixed with the wood (real, sanded wood, not the plastic American kind) of the panels and the black mica and leather gear knob that had a pleasant crunch to it when James squeezed his palm to it.
He pictured himself wearing a sleek suit, his hair slicked back, foxy silver (should he try that for the next show?), not playing himself as a childish adult trying to compete with Hammond’s boyish good looks. James sat in the car, breathing in the classy air, crystals and Rolex, thinking about how he was when he first started on the show. He wore the suits, he was charming, and daresay, maybe even handsome. And then the two chimpanzees he worked with made him strip down and stick twigs into anthills like them. Bastards.
He mentally slapped himself and turned on the engine. It purred at him, like a content panther, stretching its enormous paws for a leisurely run. He started out at a decently slow pace. Oh god, it was smooth, like a good whiskey. He took it around the track a few times, admiring the knobs and buttons, mineralesque, carved and shining in the dash. He sailed around the corners, knowing every dip, rock and turn of the track. Then he revved the engine. An excited moan, from both the engine and the man. It was heavy and guttural. He pressed the petal flat, and the car arched forward, James’ back curling further around the curves in the leather seat, fingers tightly wrapped on the wheel. His stomach lurched, lagging a split second before actual time, a heavy weight sinking onto his bladder pleasantly. The faster we went, his ears popped, and all he could hear was his tight breathing and the background hum of the engine, pumping, threading gasoline through its veins.
James pushed for top speed. His teeth crushed together, a throb in his throat every time he pulled into another gear. Almost there. The car peaked, James’ ass clenched, he jerked the gear knob, and hit the brakes, screeching with release as the car slid sideways into a halt. He hadn’t taken a breath in fifteen seconds.
Good lord, that was a good ride. There was only one thought on his mind.
“Richard, mate, you have to see this car.”
Richard Hammond walked out to the track sluggishly, rubbing his eyes with a sleepy grin, as if he has just rolled out of bed, despite the sun being well on its way down, sunken partially into the horizon. His hair was sticking up at odd angles, and he had a stupid turtleneck sweater on that only he could make look good. Unbelievable.
James tried to flatten his hair embarrassingly, even though it was his best mate, for chrissakes. Hammond’s seen him in much worse condition.
Hammond wasted no time in examining the car. James stood back, watching the man feel the curves of its body. There were no words or conversation necessary - they could use their eyes and just the metal stallion to communicate. Richard was admiring the arch of the wheel well, and James stood beside him. He stared at himself again absentmindedly in the black mirror of the car. Richard traced a circle around the head of James’ reflection with his fingers, almost erasing the wrinkles as James had tried to do.
“I’m old.” James sighed.
“Bullocks, mate, at least you aren’t Jeremy. He’s like a dinosaur already, with lint stuck on its head.”
“No, I’m really being serious.”
“Let’s take a drive.”
James started the engine’s purr again, the two men leaning deeply into the seats and listening for a moment. As before, they only needed the sounds and feels. James took it for a good, slow lap or two, staring straight out onto the paved course, his hands firm on both sides of the wheel. He couldn’t even look at Hammond. Was he really still thinking about that age thing? Why is this bothering him so much? The heavy, awkward silence was starting to set in, even between them, and James pushed the car up in speed. He could feel the questioning glances Hammond was giving him.
James all of a sudden hated Richard. He wanted to crash the car, eject Hammond out, him and his doe eyes and perpetually fit body, his little sweet grins and impeccable clothing, not ugly shirts like James’, making him look like an aged buffoon next to the immortal Mars that was Richard Hammond.
He was pulling hard on the gear box, taking corners like he really meant to turn the car over in the field.
“James.”
He skidded to a hard stop, thunking into a standstill.
“Mate, I don’t know what’s wrong…”
James just shook his head and forced a smile. Of course nothing was wrong; he was being simply idiotic and jealous of absolutely nothing. He switched into gear again.
Richard put his hand over James’, covering the gear knob. It was a comforting gesture, calm, and he felt the soft weight of Richard’s fingers as he shifted. It wasn’t the first time Hammond had touched him. The first few times were always when they had been at the pub, Richard’s hands feeling for James’ arm for support, a towering (yet reachable) shoulder to lean on, a few brief fingers on James’s neck. Then it was at James’ place, when they were sitting around on his couch. Richard leaned in for a kiss, a short, unanticipated kiss, as unquestioned as it was casual in a way. James didn’t have a habit of going around kissing his mates, but it was so easy, so mutual between Hammond and himself. They were good friends. It was so much easier than going on dates with girls he met, skipping the whole getting to know someone, since Hammond already knew every detail about his life. Plus, nowadays, if James even got a date, he could now boast the ‘rich and successful’ card, but most of the time James and the girl both walked away feeling like that date was a complete waste of time. James wasn’t the most attractive, and girls don’t exactly search for car-savvy men, all blokes were like that, and much more good-looking at that. With Richard it was just natural, oh-so-casual, just like taking a sip from his beer glass. Just a try, knowing your mate wouldn’t turn away. But never Jeremy, of course, knowing he’s picky enough putting a dirty teacup to his mouth, none-the-less James May.
James started to lighten up a bit, enjoying the corners of the track more, a quiet, soft piece of time to just drive with Richard.
“You know, I think I’ll start slicking back my hair.”
“Oh no, not like one of those ruddy car salesmen, James - “
“No, no! Like, Humphrey Bogart.”
Richard pressed his lips together and combed back James’ wild hair.
“Yeah, guess I could see it.”
Richard’s thumb traced around James’ ear, sliding around his jaw line, sagging just a bit, giving him the subtle look of sophistication at profile. James kept on driving, Richard kept on looking at James. James felt ridiculous earlier, thinking he could actually do anything bad to Hammond, not with the way he made James feel so at ease. Richard slid sideways in his seat, placing little kisses along James’ neck. He almost curled around James’ arm like a koala bear, nuzzling ever more invitingly. James certainly wasn’t opposed to this - liked it even - but he still needed to concentrate on pulling the gear and rounding corners.
“Hammond, I still have to -“
“Just drive.”
A command. From Hammond. James had to obey, raising his eyebrows as Richard started to pick at the collar of James’ shirt. He kept his forehead safely tucked under James’ chin. Richard had always wanted to discover what was under that collar, and of course he had seen James shirtless, but he wanted to know exactly what his subtle, curly chest hair felt like. How absurd, feeling a man’s chest hair. But James had to admit, the tiny prickling of Richard’s emerging whiskers were a new thrill, a feel he’d never experienced before. Slowly, Richard undid a button on James’ shirt. James’ head throbbed with blood, and his ears rang. Hammond had never gone that far, to start…unclothing him. James pushed harder on the petal. Richard’s fingers peeked through his shirt, and it shocked him. His hands weren’t plump and fleshy, like a woman’s, but firm, like the leather in the car. James imagined holding Hammond’s hand would be quite like holding the steering wheel. He didn’t know why he was thinking about that. He tried to concentrate again on the quick turns, pulling his arms almost in a full circle to clip the corners of the track.
Richard flattened his palm against James’ now exposed chest. It was smooth as sanded oak. His stomach was firm, and textured from many sunburns and rough-housing as a young man. Fresh leather. He looked at the line James’ body made in the seat, from heavy, wide shoulders, powerful steering forearms, and chiseling slightly down towards his hips. So different. No hourglass shape, no fleshy, silky skin, no bulging hips. They were solid, concentrating towards, well, what was most important to a man, like chrome pipes and valves from the engine. The tips of his fingers started to pull down the lip of James’ jeans, aching to follow the strong hip bones down.
James’ breathing was sharp, his ears popped again as he only heard ringing and the engine, but felt Richard’s breath on his skin. His face was practically in James’ lap, manically maneuvering around his head to get to the gear box. His stomach had gone rigid at Hammond’s touch, drawing in long breaths from his diaphragm. This was nothing either of them expected. He was still, completely still. He was afraid he would frighten Richard, make him sit upright and stare straight ahead again. James was begging him in his mind to stop, for chrissakes, but every nerve screamed for him to continue.
He never noticed he was stiff; it was like being hard while sleeping, something automatic and unaware. He supposed it happened whenever he drove a good car, racing blood to his whole body, slamming a foot on the clutch, or clenching a steering wheel, excited. But oh, he noticed it now, the tight pressure of his jeans releasing to just a thin layer of cotton. He yanked on the gear knob, skidding the car to a stop, both men jerking forward, then smashing into the seats, lashing from eighty to naught in a split instant.
Richard’s head was just hovering above James’ crotch, gripping his thighs during the whiplash. James was staring forward, his hands still on the wheel, mouth slightly gaping and staring ahead. Freshly exposed air was nipping at his penis, flesh exposed from the flap in his boxers. Hammond had noticed it, and gingerly touched the hard skin. Hot flashed through James’ veins. It had been a long time, a very long time since he had been touched. By a man? Never. With one swift tug, Richard fully exposed James.
He drew in a sharp breath through his teeth. It was cold, a stimulant. Richard wrapped one hand around the side of James’ thigh, the other on James’ cock. It was different than his own, than holding himself, and Richard suddenly didn’t know what to do. He decided to fill his mouth with James.
James didn’t know where to put his hands. They flew off the steering wheel and twisted themselves into Richard’s stupid sweater. Richard had no idea what he was doing, there were no male instincts for sucking a cock, but the warmth of it was simply magnificent to James. Then his tongue started, and his wet mouth, and slow bobbing. God. There was an excitement, a thrill of a first, the first time they had connected in that way. Feeling Richard’s muscular neck, brown hair in James’ fist, softer than he ever imagined, the sound of a guttural moan of pleasure from the man in his lap. It wouldn’t be long. A first was never too long. Richard tasted the precum, sour and hot like a sip of brandy.
James’ stomach clenched again, and his thighs quivered. Hammond only had to start licking once, twice, and barely a third when James pushed his foot hard against the brake pedal, non-functioning with the car in park. Richard pulled back, shocked by the burst of salty, sticky liquid. It was too much at once. James didn’t mind - he didn’t think he could either - and pressed into the seat, still shaking and drawing in open breaths. Oh god, oh god. What happened.
Richard was amazed and confused as well, and looked to a recovering James for advice. They simply stared at each other, dumbstruck, and James leaned forward to kiss that little grin spreading on his face. Maybe to stop it, because he still hated the way Richard could look so good, and terrified that he wanted it for his own.
James buttoned his shirt again, rubbing his mess off the seat with his sleeve, knowing it was fucking uncomfortable but he’d change later. He wanted a fag desperately, so he shut off the still-purring engine, stumbled out of the car-stopped sideways in the middle of Hammerhead -and pulled out a pack from his jacket, turning his back to the car. And Richard. The fuck, the fuck, the fuck. Hammond was soon next to him. He just passed him the pack, both men staring at the resilient grass, the dusk now fully settled around them.
“Sophisticated.”
“What?”
“Sophisticated. Not old. You’re not old.”
What, was he trying to poke fun at him? Suck his cock and then try to make it all better by joking? James was angry, confused, even more angry, wasn’t even sure how he could look at Richard after this. What the fuck did they just do?
“Is this some pity call, poor James, can’t be Richard Hammond, good-looking little Hammond-“
“Jesus fuck, James. You’re like fucking James Bond. Okay? Just cool, and classy, and fucking manly, and-and why do you think I fancy you so much?”
A pause. James took a long drag on his cigarette. Richard Hammond, Richard Hammond fancied him. He was his best mate, a man, a damn handsome man who wore stupid turtlenecks and laughed too much and had such big eyes and he was just perfect. Perfect. And James wasn’t hateful anymore, he was only jealous, realized he was only jealous because he thought he’d never have him.
James just took hold of Richard’s hand, and it felt just like he thought, a leather steering wheel of a gorgeous car.