#peccovale

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.

Valentino’s fingers press gently into the first knob of his spine. “Come back to the house,” he says. It’s gentle but firm — a command that leaves no room for protest. He stands, stacks his spine, and leads the way back up the path.

Valentino’s touch finds him again once the sliding door is locked behind them, steering Pecco towards him by the back of his neck. Pecco wants to shake him off; rear up like a wild horse, dislodge Valentino’s hand and peel back out across the yard. When he does none of that, silence stretches between them.

He knows Valentino isn’t sure what to say. There’s usually something, some sort of placation at the ready, but lately, there’s — no one has anything for him. Nothing makes a difference. Not when the fuck ups are his, and they’re constant; seven DNFs. That’s not worth a championship.

He averts his eyes from the uncertain draw of Valentino’s mouth.

“I cannot keep doing this,” slips between his teeth, barely a whisper.

“Pecco.”

“Being shit. Making these fucking mistakes. It is not racing that deserves to win.”

“Francesco.” Valentino’s grip tightens on his nape, anchoring; pulling his skin taut, keeping him inside it. Pecco meets his eyes.

“There is nothing you can say that will make me feel better,” he grits, voice low. Valentino likely already knows this — and it’s probably why he hasn’t really said anything.

“This, then,” Valentino says, and he reels Pecco in, till they’re chest to chest. He lets Valentino pull his face into his neck, steered by a hand in his hair. This close, he can feel the sharp jut of Valentino’s collarbones against his own. Lips brush against the sensitive shell of his ear, and then, “does it get you anywhere? How you torture yourself like this?”

Pecco stiffens. He wouldn’t call it torture. It’s a necessary punishment, when he rides like that. When he lets points slip through his fingers, lets Jorge heft the championship further out of his reach. Valentino’s breath ghosts hot across his jaw, raising goosebumps on his skin.

“Don’t act like you celebrated your crashes, Vale.”

“That is not what I am doing,” and there’s contact, Valentino’s mouth over his pulse point. Pecco makes a noise, involuntary, ripped from his chest and huffed into the mess of curls tucked behind Valentino’s ear.

Pecco has no idea what the fuck Valentino is doing, but he’s — sucking a mark over the line of Pecco’s throat, and Pecco gasps, can’t help himself, curls further into Valentino’s embrace. Heat blooms under Valentino’s mouth, skin throbbing when he pulls away and brushes his lips over what must be a forming bruise.

“Vale,” Pecco manages, reedy, desperate; wind whistling between his teeth as a breath fights its way from his lungs.

“You have to be careful with yourself,” Vale murmurs, fingers carding through Pecco’s hair. “Or it will get worse. Harder. You will come to expect the loss if you sit in it for too long.”

It’s a dreamy, roundabout way of saying don’t wallow. Pecco can’t find it in himself to be indignant, not when Vale’s running the smooth front of his teeth over the angle of Pecco’s jaw, not when he’s all Pecco can see, hear, and smell.

Pecco hates the sudden understanding that man is just an animal. That at the end of a day like this, in a year unfurling like rotten roses, all it takes is hands and a mouth and the heat of promise to clear his head. Valentino had said torture and Pecco had disagreed, but what is it, then — the way he wants to lock himself inside the misery, to let the hurt run through him; focus sunlight through a magnifying glass, cauterise the cracking, weeping wounds of hitting the ground at three hundred kilometres an hour.

He’d like to be better than this. Bigger than it. But Valentino is hot against his front, whispering, “Francesco,” along his jugular. And the pain is pain — unpleasant, even if he thinks he needs it, deserves it. 

“Are you in there?” Valentino asks, pulling Pecco back to look him in the eyes. His lips are shiny, red where they’ve been pressed to Pecco’s stubble. Pecco blinks at him stupidly, and Valentino smiles. “If you just want to beat yourself up, I will let you,” he adds, eyebrows raised.

A dog staring down meat or the boot. It’s an easy choice to make, and he hates that.

“No, please.”

The thread of need in his voice splits Valentino’s face in a sharp-toothed grin.

x

He’s not sure if it’s some new superstition Vale hasn’t let him in on, but he does it again six weeks later. On the pit wall, the pair of them pressed up against the fence to watch Cele fly past. Valentino’s hand finds his shoulder blade, and he starts to trace something with the end of his index finger. Pecco thinks maybe it’s absentminded — some sort of soothing gesture, like how he bites his nails watching their qualifyings.

He doesn’t say anything; doesn’t want to draw attention to it in case Vale hasn’t realised it’s something he’s been doing. Instead, he watches the bikes blur past and tries to focus on the point of contact, redrawing the shape in his head. A curve, a line down, a sharp point. Back up and another curve. He’s not sure. A crooked ‘m’, maybe? A logo?

x

“Ah, Vale,” fuck. He can feel himself slipping, the hot, heavy press of Valentino against his back driving him closer to the edge. Vale grinds his hips in, ripping a noise Pecco doesn’t recognise from his own throat. His hands fist in the sheets and Valentino’s mouth hits the junction of his neck and shoulder, smooth teeth gentle against his sweating skin.

“So good, you’re close, Pecco,” and he is — Valentino must be able to feel it, the way he’s going tense, clenching up all over. It’s nothing from there, a ledge stepped over and a cliff dropped off; Vale’s hips stuttering against his ass and Pecco following him down with a broken noise into the mattress.

Vale fucks him through it, kissing at his neck, muttering filth, “Pecchino,” “darling,” into his reddened ears. His vision turns cottony, popcorn stars and duck down as he goes boneless beneath Valentino’s weight. The other man pulls out gingerly, rolling off him with a long, airy noise.

They settle, catching their breath, and then Vale lifts his arm. Pecco feels his hand land lightly between his shoulder blades, and then Vale’s fingers are dancing along his skin. He allows his eyes to drift closed, focusing, following the lines.

“It’s a heart,” he breathes, chest locking up at the realisation. The words come out high and wheezy, and he cranes his neck to meet Valentino’s eyes, finding them crinkled in a smile.

“Yes.”

“So back in —?”

His ribs hurt. His back, where he’d hit the ground yesterday. Every muscle in his body, tight and groaning. He drains the rest of his drink. Disagrees with the bubbles when they froth past his molars; too much like champagne, which he isn’t deserving of right now. A wave of laughter ripples from the crowd. Valentino’s not there. Probably getting more drinks, or —

— A hand lands on the back of his neck. He jolts, turning in time to watch Valentino collapse on the bench beside him. Close — so that they’re pressed shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh when Pecco swings his feet back to the ground.

“You are not having much fun,” Vale ribs, lips drawn in a strange smile, curling his fingers around the side of Pecco’s throat to pull him close. Pecco swallows around the wild, sparkling feeling that zips down his spine.

“Allow me that,” he mutters. His ego is bruised, tender where Valentino’s prodding at it with the curve of his mouth. Valentino pulls back, scrutinising. Pecco tilts his face away, eyes shuttered.

“Ah,” Valentino argues, tapping the hinge of Pecco’s jaw with his index finger. Gentle, but demanding. Pecco turns back towards him. “No one said you are not allowed,” he intones. “Of course, I just do not like seeing you down.”

Pecco’s fingers tangle tight in his lap.

Valentino would know the root of the issue. Understands that Pecco feels like his achievements are listed with an asterisk beside them. Winning, but on the fastest bike; but not against Marc at his prime; but very nearly losing; but not in the spectacular, meteoric way that Vale did.

Protégé, but not prodigy.

“You were very good, Pecco,” and the words are whispered right into his ear, Valentino’s breath hot against the shell of it. “You are always very, very good.” An electric current picks up in his chest; zips lightning out to his finger tips, to the ends of his hair. Valentino says it low, honest. Voice gravelled with the quiet.

He huffs out a meek, “thank you.” Valentino’s other hand finds the crease of his elbow, slides till he can encircle Pecco’s wrist with his hand. Pecco’s eyes return to the gaggle of people across the grass, only a handful of metres away. Valentino is so close. Practically hanging off him now, knocking their knees together.

No one’s paying them any mind. Pecco’s face heats. He feels like an ant beneath a magnifying glass, Valentino’s attention a white-hot laser of sunlight on his skin. Burning him.

“So fast,” Valentino urges, like he’s trying to convince Pecco of it, fricatives lost and airy in wide open vowels.

Pecco’s too drunk for this. He’s on fire where Valentino’s touching him, half convinced that if he looks down to his lap, there’ll be flames kissing up his wrist through the loop of Vale’s fingers.

Sometimes he thinks the line between them has been drawing thinner. Valentino stands closer. Lingers longer. And now, it’s — like they’re about to cross it. Like the hand on his neck is pulling him over the edge, oozing magma through his pores, begging him to fall. He wonders if Valentino knows. If he heard Pecco in his room last night, fist pressed to his mouth, working himself to the lean cut of Valentino’s waist, the dancing rhythm of his voice in the night.

“Francesco,” Valentino murmurs, lips against Pecco’s ear, raising goosebumps on the back of his neck. “Come back.”

Pecco meets his eyes, forcing his vision into focus. He can feel himself getting hard, joints going loose and glittery. Valentino’s thumb soothes over his pulse point. He smiles without teeth.

“You are the only one who is doing it. I am always watching you.”

That gives him a headrush, and he slants his eyes away from the sun-bright intensity of the admission.

“I make mistakes,” he chokes out. Valentino tuts.

“Ah, but if you didn’t, maybe you would not need me to sit with you like this. Maybe that would make me sad.”

He finds the crowd again. Bez, dangling off of Cele with his head thrown back. His friends. Rivals. He wants to go inside. Wants Valentino to take him inside.

“Vale,” he manages, voice strung out by sheer want. Valentino pulls back. Allows air to fill the space between them and Pecco aches — wants to cry out at the loss, except Valentino keeps his hand firm around Pecco’s neck.

“And, next weekend. When you win. I can reward you, no? And it will feel so much better, because you will deserve it.”