Three drabbles that have been sitting on my computer for a few weeks.
He can almost hear the 'Going my way?' in that familiar Australian twang as Mark pulls his car up next to him. It’s enough to make him roll his eyes in exasperated fondness.
Fernando raps his knuckles once, twice, against Mark's helmet in greeting and swings his leg over and into the cockpit, settling as comfortable as possible on the side of the Red Bull. Conscious to keep his leg away from bumping into anything important, he relishes the thrill at having to push it softly against Mark's right arm.
Mark’s driving is noticeably different; he’s restrained, careful. Which is to be expected, of course, but it still gives Fernando a small burst of warmth deep within his chest to think that it’s all for him. That the last thing Mark wants is to hurt him. He grins widely and tightens his grip on the car.
They effortlessly glide along, Mark’s body heat seeping through the material of his overalls, warming Fernando’s calf. Soon, too soon, they pull into Mark’s third place spot in the parc fermé, and Fernando can’t stop the feeling of regret from curling up around his heart. He could have ridden around with Mark for hours. In fact, he’d really love nothing more.
Fernando carefully hops off the car, his hand already reaching out to grab Mark’s. Their fingers slide together, immediately fitting between one another with ease.
Mark’s eyes are crinkled at the corners; he’s smiling, Fernando notes as he counts down a couple of seconds in his head - the appropriate time that they can keep their hands clasped without drawing attention - before reluctantly pulling away. The moment truly shattered when Lewis bounds up to them.
He sighs inwardly. Time to be professional again.
Jenson traces Sebastian’s jaw; dipping and trailing his fingers down his neck, leaving sticky white frosting in their path. He stops when he reaches Sebastian’s clavicle, rests his fingertips lightly against the smooth skin, and just listens.
Sebastian’s breathing is shaky, and short soft puffs of air escape from between his lips in quick succession. His eyes are tightly closed, blonde lashes fanned out above flushed cheekbones. Not for the first time, Jenson is struck by how angelic Sebastian looks.
He lowers his head and darts his tongue out to taste the long smear stretching the length of Sebastian’s neck. He follows the stripe of sweetness upwards, briefly sucking at his adam’s apple. Sebastian squirms in delight, his endless energy always so infectious. So much so, Jenson’s often found himself in some pretty interesting situations over the last few years because of it. But this time, well, Jenson wants to do things his way.
“Jenson,” Sebastian moans, “Ich will…”
Jenson shifts up and grinds his hips hard into Sebastian’s own, causing the slighter man beneath him to throw his head back onto the pillow and open his legs wider around Jenson’s thighs.
“Now, now, Seb,” Jenson chides with a grin, “This is about what I want. I did just win my 200th race, after all.”
Jenson sticks his finger deep into the slice of cake nestled amongst the covers next to them. Scooping up moist sponge, sprinkles, and icing; he thoroughly coats Sebastian’s lips with the gooey mixture. His teasing precision dragging out a whine from the young German’s throat.
Once satisfied, Jenson cups Sebastian’s jaw and sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. He runs his tongue along the plump flesh, drinking in the sugary warmth that explodes over his taste buds, before deepening the kiss.
Sebastian groans and arches up, immediately slipping his hands down the back of Jenson’s jeans and digging his nails into the firm swell of his arse as he greedily seeks out every last bit of wet heat from Jenson’s mouth.
When they part, Sebastian flops back down onto the bed, his large eyes shining. “We’re going to need more cake,” he says, accent thickened.
“Good lad,” Jenson laughs.
The dreams started one week after Ayrton’s death.
He thought nothing of them to begin with. He was missing his friend, his mentor, and he was hurting. It was normal. In fact, that first glimpse of Ayrton’s soft smile and dark eyes had been a relief.
“I’m glad you’re okay, Rubinho,” Ayrton had said, gripping Rubens' shoulders tightly. Rubens could feel the pressure of his fingers, smell the soft scent of his aftershave and count the freckles scattered across his nose; all as if he was really there in front of him. He woke up the next morning rested and, remarkably, with his heart feeling a little less heavy.
The dreams continued from that moment onwards. Not every night, but always when he needed them. Needed him.
“Pole position!” Ayrton laughed, the night after qualifying at Spa. Ayrton’s overwhelming joy the easy reassurance he needed and the sincere praise he wanted.
When Rubens scored his first career win in Germany, Ayrton hugged him. “About time,” he whispered in Rubens' ear, glowing with pride and happiness.
He woke up crying that particular morning.
It hadn’t been easy, moving on. He got older, much to Ayrton’s constant amusement, married the love of his life, had two wonderful children - yet the dreams never stopped.
“Look after Jenson, he’s going to be big,” Ayrton told him sternly, hands on his hips, when the young Brit became his teammate.
“How’s Felipe doing?” He asked, worried and heartbroken after the small Ferrari driver’s crash in Hungary.
“I can’t believe how tall Bruno has got,” Ayrton wistfully admitted to him on the day of Bruno’s birthday, more pensive than Rubens had seen him in years.
And, the one he’s heard over and over, “Tell Gerhard that I…” A confession that always goes unsaid.
Rubens still dreams about Ayrton, still talks to him. Maybe it’s unhealthy to be so invested with his imagination’s version of a man he didn’t know for as long as he would have liked; a ghost from his past.
But he’s never had a greater friend, and probably never will.