#creative!

His fingers flex around the leather case like they’re threatening to drop it. Six ribbed rods, chrome-bright silver. Decreasing in size from left to right, each with a perfectly round loop at one end. Recognition had clicked like a lock the moment he laid eyes on them. Vague — but certain. A handful of jokes made when he and his friends were younger and more vulgar, peering at a Reddit thread and stifling their horrified laughter.

So, Valentino has a sounding kit. Pecco’s going to put it down. He’s going to pick up the thing he came here for — that sweater, the one in the corner of his eye, and he’s going to catch his breath, and he’s going to leave. Except none of that happens. He exhales shakily. His index finger moves of its own volition, darts out to swipe over the bubbling form of the largest rod. 

It’s cool to the touch. Feels shiny, if that’s even possible. Slick and smooth against his skin. A rush of heat floods his system, and he’s sixteen again, scrolling back in his search history now that he’s alone, heart fluttery like moth wings. Red all the way to the roots of his hair.

Why did Valentino have this. For — for himself? To use on someone else? And — fuck, Jesus. He swallows, blinking rapidly, trying to banish that image to a distant, distant corner of his skull. There shouldn’t be a fire kindling at the base of his spine right now — shouldn’t be a hot, stinging burn surging up to his ears.

His eyes find the rods again, magnet pull — can’t help himself.

“Pecco, if I knew it would take you . . .” Valentino’s voice starts up down the hall, and the rest of his sentence erupts into static as Pecco jumps into motion. Snaps the case shut, jams it back where he found it and lunges for Vale’s sweater. Fractures the plastic fucking coathanger it’s on with the force, and then Valentino appears in the doorway.

“You are breaking my things, Pecco,” he intones, not annoyed, but amused. Curious, a brow curved delicately towards his hairline. Pecco raises the voice in his head to a scream, just in case Valentino can read minds and happens to see the vision of him projected on the inside of Pecco’s skull — long, tan fingers dancing over silver, curled around someone’s cock, eyes slanted and teasing.

“Sorry,” he croaks. Coughs and tries again, desperate to sand the grit from his voice. “Sorry. I tripped. Here.”

He pushes the offending item of clothing into Valentino’s arms and side steps around him. Vale watches him flee, lips pursed like he’s holding back a question. Pecco cannot do a question right now. Probably can’t even do another sentence; isn’t sure what the fuck he’d say when 99% of his brain power is working towards valiantly not thinking about Valentino holding him down with a big hand on his hips, leveraging his weight to keep Pecco pinned to the bed, and the rod — the slick-shiny slide of it inside, and — holy fuck, stop.

He shoulders the wall turning into his room too early, has to catch himself with a fist balled against it. Valentino’s footsteps follow him, and for one terrifying second Pecco thinks he’s about to step through the door. But he doesn’t. Just keeps walking, normal, unaware, because Pecco’s brain hadn’t actually melted out his ears and spilled that insane scene onto the carpet.

Thank fucking God.

Getting into bed, he’d thought about the shouldn’t. How his body had been reacting in a way that wasn’t allowed. How his mind had been feverish at the scenes inside of it. Those things should not have happened.

Falling asleep — he’d played over the should — what comes next, after this?

He decides that he forgets about it, first. And then he has one lapse. One. That’s it. Maybe in the shower, leant up against the wall with his hand around himself when his mind drops like an anchor; and suddenly what had been an indiscriminate feeling becomes the thought of Valentino settled over him, easing a rippled sound into his cock till he’s crying from it. And then he completely forgets about it. The end. Chapter closed.

When he wakes up hard, ripped from a dream of spit, sweat and mess, mercury pooling in his gut, it becomes apparent that this will not be easy. There will be no neat, appropriate bookend.

The stream of the shower slices through him, cold water stiffening all the muscles that had gone hot and lax in his sleep. It’s for the best. If he’s tense, on edge, then he’ll be careful. Sliding a blade through every word, dissecting before he says them. Checking for hidden meaning.

The stress means he makes it through breakfast like a racehorse. Surges, sweating and huffing to the finish line. He even holds a conversation with Valentino, laughs at some story Bez was telling. Gratefully accepts the laurel wreath of his bike helmet when they pile outside after the dishes have been cleared.

It locks him away. Turns him into a figure, rather than a person. And the throaty howl of the bikes jams noise into the space between all of them, so he doesn’t have to speak — doesn’t even have to think.

About metal glinting in the dark. Valentino’s ringed fingers, so hot in contrast. Each breath heaved like it’s ripped from his lungs, and there’s barely space inside him for the oxygen. Full to bursting. On the limit, pushing.

The bike snaps underneath him, protests the too-rigid bend of his arms dragging it around the track. Franky slides past him on the outside.

Valentino’s watching from up by the house. There’s too much distance between them for eye contact — blocked by sunglasses and a visor in any case. Pecco must imagine the heat, then. The pulsing weight of Vale’s attention, how it snatches up inside his chest, pulls all his muscles taut and burning.