#pedreix

"Tough race?" he eventually settles on. Aleix hadn't seen the crash, but he'd passed the KTM garage all shuttered and quiet on his way back down the pit lane.

"Yeah," Pedro says, drawing his knees up to his chest. If things were different, Aleix might tease him for that, tell him to get his sneakers off the furniture— but now he just stays quiet. Waits.

"It's— it's not just that," Pedro continues eventually. "It is KTM, they…"

"It's confirmed, then? They won't race next year?" Aleix had heard the rumors, everyone had, though KTM had denied it at every turn.

Pedro just nods. "They're announcing it tomorrow. Wanted to get through their last home GP first."

"Shit," Aleix says, reaching over to curl a hand around the back of Pedro's neck. He stiffens at the touch, makes Aleix pause, just for a second—

"I don't know what the fuck I'm going to do," he says, voice low and strained, face resolutely turned away from Aleix. "I know you said we could not see each other anymore, after you retired, but right now I think— I need…"

Aleix makes a small, hurt noise at that— because he had said that, yes, had wanted a clean break— but he didn't think something like this would happen.

"Of course, Pedro, of course, anything you want." It spills out of him easily, far more easily than it should. "Not here, but— you can come to my hotel room tonight. If you'd like."

"But— you said…" Pedro says, finally turning to look at Aleix properly.

"I know. But if you need me tonight, it is fine." Aleix squeezes Pedro's shoulder in a gesture he hopes is reassuring. "Just the once."

Pedro stares at Aleix for a long moment, eyes glassy and wet.

"Okay, then. Just this once," he says.

When Pedro comes to the hotel, hours later, he is worse. In Aleix's office, he'd been tense, like a taut string— when Aleix opens the door to him now, it is like that string has been cut, leaving him scooped-out, empty. No trace of the easy confidence he usually carries. He shuffles through the doorway and into Aleix's arms; when the door closes behind them, Aleix presses a kiss to Pedro's cheek.

"Pedro," Aleix murmurs. He's missed this, the warmth of him in his arms; he takes a moment to savor it before pulling back to cup Pedro's face in his hands. "I am glad you came. I drew us a bath, if you want it…"

Pedro doesn't say anything, just gives him a long and vacant look. Aleix notices with a start that his face is red, blotchy— which means he must have cried, before he came here.

Then Pedro blinks, nods slowly. Aleix swallows around the bile rising in his throat.

In the bathroom, Aleix strips first and slides into the water, then turns around to watch Pedro. It's dark, save for the glow of the candles— Aleix had gone all out, had figured if they're only doing this once he should make it good.

But watching Pedro strip out of his shirt and sweatpants, maybe it's just the low light but he looks— he looks so young, Aleix thinks. Still long-limbed and slightly lanky, like he hasn't fully finished growing into himself. He moves slowly, awkwardly— some of it is the crash, Aleix knows, eyes the dark splotch of a bruise on Pedro's hip— but he seems almost shy, in a way he usually isn't. Not around Aleix. Guilt simmers in his stomach, starting to froth.

Pedro gingerly steps into the tub, sits down with his back to Aleix. He tenses when Aleix loops an arm around him, tugs him backward to rest against his chest— but then he relaxes, leans his head back against Aleix's shoulder with a sigh. It's the only sound he's made all night.

They spend a long time in silence, after that, broken only by the gentle lapping of the water. Aleix presses kisses everywhere he can reach— the crown of Pedro's head, the ridge of his shoulder, the soft skin behind his ear. Smooths his hand over the plane of Pedro's stomach. Tries to get any kind of response from him; receives none.

Aleix wonders— when did it get so hard to read him? He can see the muscles working in his jaw, knows he's biting his lip, but he can't tell why— if Pedro's just stressed about his contract or if there's something else.

Maybe he'd forfeited that right— to know what Pedro is feeling— back in Andorra. In December once the post-season rush died down. When he'd invited Pedro back to his house, one last time, when they'd fucked, one last time; when Aleix had said, we can't see each other anymore and Pedro had gone quiet, shuttered. Had been completely radio silent in Silverstone, is still and silent now in Aleix's arms.

Something boils over inside of him.

"Pedro, baby. Talk to me," Aleix says. "If it is your contract, I can— I can get you an in at Honda, maybe, or Aprilia—"

Pedro laughs, dryly. Darkly. "There's no space at Honda for next year."

"What? I thought they still had the LCR seat open…" They would have told Aleix, surely, if they signed someone new to fill Zarco's place.

"Marini's got it," Pedro says. "I spoke to Albert— he said the contract is already signed. Why they're waiting to announce it, I don't know." He sighs. "Which means it is four riders, and one seat."

"One seat, with a team that has wanted you from the beginning," Aleix says. "It will be okay, Pedro. Valentino will be thrilled to have you."

"He will— he will want Bastianini, surely." Pedro says, shaking his head. "He has won, I haven't."

"He's only won on the Ducati. You are better than he is— you just haven't had the same bike. That's all," Aleix says.

"No. Even on the KTM, he is better," Pedro says quietly. "It… it has been a tough season."

"Pedro," Aleix says, softly— but Pedro just turns his face away, tucks deeper into Aleix's shoulder.

There is another long moment of silence. Aleix stares at the water beading on Pedro's neck, at the spot on his nape where his hair is cut close. Thinks of waking up next to him, and he— he can't take it anymore. Needs to know if he's right, that this is somehow his fault, so he can fix it.

"There is… there is something else, isn't there," Aleix says gently. "Something that's bothering you."

"It has been a hard season," Pedro repeats. "That's all."

"It has been… not quite as hard, but strange for me too," Aleix says. "To watch on TV— hard to adjust to not being there."

"It was easier when you were." Pedro's voice is thick, shaky— Aleix can feel the tremor running through him, tries to lace their fingers together, to reassure him—

And Pedro startles, hard, is up and standing before Aleix can even blink.

"Wait—" Aleix calls, manages to catch him by the wrist before he's out of reach. "Pedro, don't—"

"Let me go." Aleix doesn't— tightens his grip instead, circles his thumb around the bone in Pedro's wrist. "Aleix."

Aleix swallows, hard. "Please, just— sit for a second, just tell me what is wrong."

Pedro stands with the water sloshing around his shins for a moment— Aleix's heart beats one, two, three times— then he inhales, shakily, and sits on the edge of the tub.

Aleix pools himself between Pedro's knees in an instant. "Please, Pedro. Just talk to me."

Pedro looks at Aleix— really looks at him for the first time in months, wide-eyed.

"Aleix, I can't. I can't fucking do this," he says, scraped-raw, gutted. Heartbroken, Aleix realizes with a mounting horror. "Just once, you said, and that— having you one moment, losing you the next— I can't go through that again."

"I thought— you said," Aleix says, stomach dropping, "you said you needed me."

"I do," Pedro says with a small, sad smile. "But if it is like this, then. I will do without."

And Aleix can't breathe— like this was a slow and inevitable capsize, leaving him floundering, gasping for air— and Pedro is still looking at him, and his eyes are clear, clear blue in the low light, and Aleix thinks— not for the first time— that he has made a horrible mistake.

He bows over, presses his forehead to Pedro's knee, closes his eyes. Thinks of Pedro walking out of here; thinks of last year, white sheets and sweet champagne froth.

"What if it wasn't like this?" he says, hand curling around Pedro's calf like a lifeline. "What if it wasn't just once?"

"If we went back to how we were before?" Aleix nods against Pedro's leg, feels fingers card through his hair. "Aleix, you said it wouldn't work. That you would be away too much— with your cycling, your family."

"I will make it work," Aleix says, pleading, "I will talk to them, I'll rearrange things, come to more races— Pedro, I want to be there, I want…"

Pedro tugs gently at the back of his head, tilts Aleix's face up to meet his gaze. "Aleix," he breathes, hopeful, candle-bright, "Aleix, do you mean it?"

"Yes, Pedro, yes, of course I do," Aleix says. "I want it— I want you."

"Aleix," Pedro says again, and then he is sliding into Aleix's arms and kissing him, finally, hungrily, tasting of seawater and sweet relief.

Water sloshes over the side of the tub— they're making a mess, but Aleix doesn't care, doesn't let go of Pedro for a second. Holds him even closer, kisses over the line of his jaw to his pulse point— and Pedro moans as the movement drags his cock over Aleix's thigh, a high, needy sound that goes straight to Aleix's gut.

"Pedrito, baby, how do you want me?" Aleix murmurs, low, affected.

"Inside," Pedro gasps, twitches his hips down again, "Inside, Aleix, please, I need…"

"Of course, of course," Aleix says, smooths a hand over his back and reaches for the lube.

Pedro whines again as Aleix works a finger inside of him. "Not like that," he mutters, turns to press his forehead against Aleix's neck.

"I know, baby, I know," Aleix says. "Just don't wanna hurt you." Again, he thinks— suspects he will be trying to make this up to Pedro for a long time.

But they find their rhythm after that, Aleix working Pedro open on his fingers, Pedro muffling his moans into Aleix's collarbone. Aleix loses himself in it, a little, high on the feeling of Pedro pressed against him— on the tight clutch around him as he starts coaxing Pedro down onto his cock.

Pedro makes another small, desperate noise— almost a sob— when his hips finally settle over Aleix's. His face is wet, shiny down his cheeks. Aleix reaches up to cup it in his hand, needs to know if it hurts, if they're going too fast.

But it is like Pedro knows what he is thinking, because he shakes his head. "Just missed you," he says, tilts his head to press a kiss to the heel of Aleix's palm—

And glances down at him with a look that is so warm, still so adoring and utterly trusting; his lips curve upward into a small smile, the first Aleix has seen in far too long. Something unknots within him, goes liquid in his chest. Because if he can still make Pedro smile, despite everything— despite how much of an idiot he has been— they can still come back from this. They'll be okay.

"Missed you too," Aleix whispers, hopes it'll say everything he can't— the hope, the determination that is filling him. And as he pulls Pedro down to kiss him again, rolls his hips up into him gentle like a wave, all he can think is—

So Pedro feels kind of bad about it, really. That Aleix comes into a room and Pedro’s heart rate kicks up; that his palm on Pedro’s shoulder or the back of his neck makes him sweat. That all the words glob up weird in Pedro’s mouth whenever Aleix tries to have a conversation, only the two of them. He just doesn’t know what it is.

Until he does. And that — that’s a fucking gut punch, like, the ‘oh shit’ moment of his life.

An illustrious goalie career will get you a big fucking house with a massive fucking free air shower and heated tile floors. And, sue him, Pedro’s just a guy, and the 6am starts are brutal, and sometimes a half-awake orgasm is far more effective than any amount of caffeine.

The slate is cool against his back, and his eyes are unfocused on his feet, lobster red all the way up to his knees from the searing heat of the spray. He’d woken up so hard that his sleepy, uncoordinated hand is more than enough, already close. There’s a distant noise, muffled beneath the fan and the shower and the door keeping him sealed away. He doesn’t stop, because Aleix has never interrupted him before, and because he can’t really justify being in here any longer without feeling bad about the water bill.

He slides his thumb over the head of his dick, eyes fluttering shut.

Aleix says, “Pedro, I have a knot in my back,” and he must be pressed to the door, the way his voice comes through clear like a bell. Pedro’s teeth snap together and it’s like his brain malfunctions, because suddenly his vague, faceless tits-and-ass fantasy is Aleix, the lean cut of him, caging Pedro in.

Pedro comes — reacting too late to slow his hand, and Aleix is still talking, “when you’re out I just need you to like, put your elbow in it, I can’t get my shirt on, arm’s fucked —” and so basically Pedro’s coming to the sound of his voice, the vivid picture in his head, and a noise bursts from his mouth, equal parts horror and release.

Aleix goes silent. Pedro knocks a bunch of shit off the shower ledge in his haste to straighten up and rinse his come down the drain.

“Pedro? Did you fall?”

“No — no, I am fine, don’t come in — yes I will help — with your arm. Give me ten!”

He doesn’t hear whatever Aleix says in response. His world’s narrowed to a terrible, awful sense of clarity, set against the throbbing rush of blood in his ears.

Oh shit.

He finds Aleix ten minutes later, almost folded in half over his legs on the living room floor. And shirtless, which — yeah, he’d said that. Pedro had just been. Preoccupied.

Aleix hears him come in and straightens to peer at him, face creased in a grimace.

“It’ll take like a minute, and then we can go. I just need you to release the tension, can hardly get my arm over my head.”

Pedro swallows, nods, wipes his chin in case he’s drooling at the whipcord toned expanse of skin before him. He barely catches that train of thought, which is fucking new, and apparently that’s just it, now. He’s realised, and the dam’s burst. Fucking hell.

Aleix raises an eyebrow. Pedro takes a quick step and drops to his knees at Aleix’s back.

“So I just —?”

“Your elbow, just —” he reaches his hand around, fingers drawing over the ridge of his shoulder blade, “— here, for like thirty seconds. Lean into it.”

Pedro does as he’s told, gingerly bringing the point of his elbow to the designated spot. Aleix huffs when he first presses in, and then he’s folding down. Pedro has no choice but to go with him or else he’ll lose his grip; so he’s slumping over Aleix’s bare back, balanced with a hand on the carpet by his hip. Aleix groans and, oh — that’s dangerous.

Pedro thinks of suicide runs. Crossover sprints. How warm Aleix is. Fucking — burpies.

“Harder, please,” whispered.

What the fuck. His fingers spasm in the carpet. Aleix lets out a long, low noise when Pedro leans even further against him, and Pedro practically bites through his tongue. Something gives beneath his elbow, and Aleix says, “ah,” and rolls his shoulder like Pedro’s full weight isn’t resting on it, which — okay, he’ll think about that later, and then he straightens back up.

Pedro takes that as his cue to put some distance between them, shuffling till his back hits the couch. Aleix twists, raises his hands above his head, flexes, and Pedro watches every ripple of muscle, absolutely transfixed.

The hill is steep and very fucking slippery, and he’s flying down it like there’s an engine up his ass.

Aleix says, “okay,” and pushes himself to his feet.

“Let me pull a shirt on and we’ll go.”

Pedro means to answer, “yes, sure,” but nothing comes out. His tongue’s fallen half way down his own throat.

He makes it to the car eventually. Swipes Aleix’s keys from the table and lets himself into the passenger seat to wait, because that’s what Aleix usually expects him to do. Except now it’s like — there’s some sort of squirming weight to it, hot on the back of his neck. Everything feels off.

Aleix flashes him a grin when he opens the driver’s side door.

“Coffee?” he asks, pressing the roller door fob and pulling smoothly out of the garage.

Pedro murmurs, “my shout,” like he always does, knowing full well Aleix would never let him pay. He sinks lower in his seat. Is that weird? Is there something weird about that?

He’ll ask Jorge. Jorge will know.

Hey, did you get like, this weird sugar baby treatment from Aleix when you were billeting with him? Oh, and did you accidentally come to the sound of his voice? Yeah, got myself into a situation. Feeling normal about it. Do not fucking tell him, Dios santo.

Okay. Or not.

Aleix extends a drink his way. Pedro, blinks, taking it. He’d zoned out — hadn’t even heard Aleix order. Doesn’t matter, because Pedro gets the same thing every time and Aleix knows his order off by heart, and that’s —

He stares down at the drink wedged between his thighs.

Aleix taps his fingers on the wheel to the rhythm of Curazao. Pedro’s been looping that during his workouts recently.

“Did they make it good?”

“Huh?” Pedro says stupidly, ripped out of his head. Aleix slides him a glance.

“Your drink. I didn’t recognise the girl who served us.”

“Oh.” Pedro takes a sip. Tastes the same as it always does. He doesn’t know how Aleix notices that sort of stuff. Pedro wouldn’t be able to pick a single employee from that place out of a line up. Not because he like, doesn’t care or thinks of them as less than — just because it’s always early when they’re there and he’s just. He doesn’t pay attention, not like Aleix does.

It feels like Aleix is always paying attention.

“Yeah. It’s good.”

Aleix hums, nods his head.

“Good.”

As good as the coffee is, all it does is spike his pulse, and he’s practically vibrating by the time they arrive at the rink. Aleix shoulders both their bags, and Pedro protests so, so weakly — met immediately with, “ah, I am returning the favour, you helped me this morning.”

If they were tallying fucking favours, Pedro would be indebted for life. Would probably have to trade his jersey for a maid outfit, and — fuck, quit that.

He thinks about arguing harder, because now he’s looking at all of this; at Aleix buying his coffee, carrying his bags, playing his favourite song on the car ride, and it’s making his hair stand on end. But Aleix disarms him with a toothy grin, and then he’s three big steps ahead and it’s too late.

The caffeine jitters stop him from cornering Jorge on the ice, sort of because he thinks he might throw up before he gets the question out.

Instead, he focuses on shooting like a beer leaguer — 20 shots and Aleix blocks all of them. Mav gives him a look as he skates by, eyebrows raised. Heat prickles up the back of Pedro’s neck. He lines up for one more, determined, embarrassed, and then he catches the glint of Aleix’s eyes through his mask and bounces the puck off the glass behind the net.

He groans into his gloves and spins on his skate before Aleix can call out to him. Jorge’s watching on with a blank look, one that transforms into mild concern when Pedro gently drifts into his side against the boards.

“You did not sleep?” Jorge asks, lilting.

“I slept. Just — off day, you know.” Let it be just the one, he thinks. Please, can this not be the start of something.

They watch Mav go five-hole on Aleix. It’s not even like Aleix is in particularly wonderful form this morning, what with his shoulder thing from earlier. It’s just that Pedro is so strikingly terrible.

Jorge says, “no kidding.” Pedro chokes back a slightly hysterical laugh.

“It’s actually — ah. Well.” He gets a concerned look flashed his way for that miserable attempt at a coherent sentence. The words go tar-thick on his tongue.

“A stroke?”

He huffs a laugh.

“No. I just — When you stayed with Aleix, did —” he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip. There’s no way to ask that. He can’t. He doesn’t even know what that question implies, if Jorge’s going to cackle and run with it, if every other bastard in this rink is going to get folded into a joke that Pedro clearly is not in on.

“Did…?”

“Forget it.”

Mav tries to go between Aleix’s legs again, and he saves it butterfly style. His triumphant laugh rings out across the ice, bounces off the walls of Pedro’s skull like a pinball.

“Hey,” he calls, pumping the blood back into his hands as he rounds the corner. The back of Aleix’s head comes into view first, where he’s sitting on the couch, and then Pedro lifts his gaze to the TV and — freezes. Because that’s him, and the video is dim — smokey orange light, shadows playing across his face and chest. The camera shifts, lowers, like it’s being set aside. And then it’s him and Aleix, Aleix on his knees between Pedro’s parted legs, slipped in the gap of his thighs, pressed close. Pedro’s head is thrown back, throat bared, mouth open.

Aleix — on the couch — cranes his neck to meet Pedro’s eyes. He grins; this big, wolfish smile, every tooth on display. Pedro feels the bottom drop out of his stomach, all the air vacuum from his chest.

“Come sit,” Aleix says, arm slinging across the back of the seat. Pedro blinks at him, and then back to the TV, to where on screen-Aleix has folded Pedro in half to lick into his mouth. That had been three weeks ago — or four, maybe. Pedro had forgot about it, about the camera, because Aleix had fucked him so thoroughly he’d slept right through lunch the next day, and woken up not even remembering his name.

Aleix tracks him as he crosses the floor, as he comes around to the couch. When he’s within reaching distance, Aleix grabs for his arm, tugs him down to sit tucked into his side. Pedro can’t take his eyes off the screen. Can’t hear whatever Aleix breathes in his ear over the blood pounding in his ears.

“—edro. Pedro, hey.”

He blinks, hazy. Aleix turns his head manually, fingers gentle on his jaw.

“Good?”

He nods. “Yeah, I’m.” The words turn to dust on his tongue. On screen, Aleix rolls into him. Pedro hears himself whine. Heat floods his face. Aleix’s hand drops to cup the side of his neck, fingertips on his pulse.

“Felt so good, amo. So tight. Thought you were gonna kill me.”

Pedro’s head spins. Aleix breathes all of that right into his ear, lips brushing the shell of it. He watches himself moan through it, trying to adjust. Watches Aleix pull out, eyes squeezed shut and then fit all the way back in. The shredded, rippling cut of him above Pedro, and he can feel it now, pressed against him. Aleix’s arm on the back of his neck, the flex of muscle.

“Look at you, Pedro. Made for me. See how well we fit?”

Aleix pivots on his heel to watch Pedro disappear into the crowd, stomach plummeting. It’s not — he shakes his head. That’s about Pedro, about the crash. It’s not about them, and Aleix hates that his mind goes there at the first sign of any conversational misstep, any awkward glance. Jumps the gun and hurdles straight over reason towards there’s something wrong between us.

Except Pedro ignores his calls and doesn’t even open his texts. Aleix leaves an airy voicemail, something sweet, how are you getting home? Hope I can see you soon. Then he puts himself in the crashed-out-finished-shit race mindset. The don’t talk to me, leave me alone mood backed up by the aches and pains of hitting the ground at 200km/h.

That logical line of thought keeps him lingering in his motorhome later than usual, suitcases packed by the door. He would’ve flown out by now, normally. But if Pedro comes looking for him — resolves the storm thundering in his head, then he wants to be here.

And Pedro does come. Knocks feebly on the door of the trailer, so gently Aleix almost doesn’t hear it; like he’s hoping there won’t be an answer.

Aleix answers.

Pedro shrinks when the door opens, rolls his lips and steps in when Aleix moves out of the way. The lock turns with a click.

Aleix says, "hey," with a tentative grin.

Pedro moves to stand beside the couch awkwardly, expectantly. When Aleix follows, sits, Pedro goes down in tandem with him, pools into his lap before Aleix’s even properly seated. Pedro isn’t soft, sugar and cream how he usually is — bar how he'd been after the bikes.

Aleix can almost feel the anxious thrum under his skin; can definitely feel the taught string of every muscle, the tense curl of his shoulders. He sweeps his hands down Pedro’s back, trying to undo the knots.

They kiss, Pedro leading with his teeth, messy and nervy. Aleix feels like he’s got a wounded bird of prey in his lap — this thing all sharp talons and beak, broken wings with no way to escape. He tries to slow it down, mouths along the cut of Pedro’s jaw, but Pedro won’t have it. Fists his hands in Aleix’s hoodie, grinds hard against him, and it’s the contact that makes Aleix realise Pedro is shaking.

He gets his hands around Pedro’s shoulders and pulls him off, holding him at arms length. Pedro’s pink in the face, eyes glossed over, and he tilts his head away when Aleix’s stare doesn’t waver. He’s upset.

“Pedro,” Aleix says, thumbs pressing gently into the junction of his neck. “Pedro. What do you want to do? Tell me.”

Pedro makes a frustrated noise — an exhale so sharp Aleix almost expects to see smoke flare from his nostrils. He wrangles himself out of Aleix’s hold and drops suddenly to the floor, presses forward till he’s wedged between Aleix’s open legs. His hands settle themselves on Aleix’s thighs, nails biting in the denim.

“I want to — suck your dick,” he says haltingly — brow drawn in a scowl. The confidence hooks in Aleix’s gut like a barb. It had been welcome, back at his house. Pedro having his way, lit by some fire Aleix couldn’t understand. But here, like this, it’s dark. Unsettling. A thoroughbred jostling in his stall, not eager to race, but eager to bolt. Knowing he’s fast enough to get away. He feels like Pedro’s on the edge of running.

“Pedro.”

Pedro hisses, digs his fingers in hard. Aleix curls his hand around his nape, thumb dragging through the buzzed hair there. Pedro rolls his neck, like he’s trying to shake Aleix’s palm. Aleix blinks. He’s not — he hasn’t seen Pedro like this. Not up close, not in touching distance. A falcon caught in wire, snapping at the hands that try to help. Threatening to bite, to scratch.

Pedro ducks, pressing his forehead to Aleix’s knee.

“Please,” he manages, changing tack when the fire doesn't get him anywhere, voice raked across coals. “Just let me.”

Fuck. Fine. If Pedro does this, and Aleix can pull him up after, hold him close — usher him onto his jet and fly them both home, then fine. This can be a blip. Something Pedro needs, some wicked post-crash energy he needs to expel. And then they can go back to normal. To sweet and fun.

“Okay,” he murmurs. Pedro startles into action, attention narrowing to an intense, laser-focused point. Aleix is half hard already, from when Pedro had leapt into his lap, hot and wanting, and Pedro’s hand, rough around him, takes him the rest of the way.

Pedro’s anger — if that’s what this is, translates well into confidence. He gets his mouth on Aleix with none of the modesty he’d had in Aleix’s bed, sucks as soon as he’s able, cheeks hollowed and tongue flat. Aleix shifts his hand up to bury it in Pedro’s hair, and Pedro sinks all the way down in the same moment.

His eyes hit the ceiling, focusing on the LED light till it’s burned into his vision. Pedro makes a noise, one that Aleix feels, rather than hears.

Something had shifted back in Andorra. Between waking up and fucking in his backyard — Pedro had got into this headspace that Aleix just couldn’t work out. Maybe it had started on the bike, when Pedro pulled to a hard stop to give Aleix an unreadable look from behind his visor. Or maybe it had started with the tea, with lying in bed together — something too fond, too domestic. If that was a lot. If it had scared Pedro off, made him feel like he needs to cement this as something physical and sharp-edged. To sand off the softness.

Aleix doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what Pedro wants. Only half knows what he himself wants, and, even then it’s just — it’s hard to admit. Turns his stomach, sort of, knowing they might not be on even footing. That the hole he’s fallen down might be bottomless, while Pedro’s still standing at the top, not keen on jumping.

He blinks, pulling himself back into the moment — back into Pedro’s mouth around his cock.

“So good, Pedro,” he whispers, hoping it’ll smooth out the lines between his eyebrows.

Pedro hums, swirls his tongue and doesn’t turn his eyes to Aleix. Aleix hates that. Just wants Pedro to look at him. Blink up at him gently, eager to please, pliant. Pedro’s teeth graze his skin, and he jolts. A noise vibrates around him, a brusque apology.

He narrows his focus to the feeling. Knows if he doesn’t get out of his head, he’s not going to come, and something tells him that would just make things worse.

Pedro makes himself gag and then holds there, Aleix’s cock nudging at the back of his throat, tears gathering in his eyes. Aleix bites his name on a punched moan. It sounds desperate. Pleading. Finally, Pedro looks at him. Aleix tightens his hand in his hair, a warning, and comes down his throat on the next stroke.

Pedro chokes, swallows and pulls off. Aleix reaches for him immediately — tries to get him by the waist, but Pedro stands and steps back. Aleix’s hands swipe at empty air.

“Pedro,” Aleix says again. Pedro wipes his mouth.

“I gotta go,” he mutters, eyes shifting to the floor, voice ruined. Before Aleix can protest, ask what the fuck, no, why, Pedro is gone. Aleix gapes at the closed door, head ringing in the sudden silence.

Pedro just fucking fled. Racehorse out the gate, taking a run at the track barrier and disappearing into the distance. Ice water sloshes down his chest. By the time he’s done his jeans up and made it to the door, Pedro is nowhere to be seen.

“How d’you know where I live?”

Aleix grins, shrugs, test the strength of the table with one hand before he hefts himself up onto it. It creaks dangerously.

“Your address is on your payslips.” 

Oh, yeah. Fair play.

“Feel like I could report you to TAFE for that.”

“But then I’d lose my favourite apprentice.”

Pedro closes his laptop, eyes straying too close to Aleix’s tan thighs.

“I’m your only apprentice.”

Aleix’s smile widens — goes sharklike as he peers down at Pedro.

“Doing homework?”

Pedro shakes his head, reclines back in his chair.

“Fuckin’ Centrelink shit. Makes me wanna brain myself.” 

It’d taken him six weeks to get everything set up in the first place, and then when everything finally kicked in, it’d been like a hundred dollars less than he thought it would be. And then yesterday he’d gotten a letter saying he owes them money.

“Oh, to be young,” Aleix sighs, batting his eyelashes. Pedro stands, scoops his laptop up under an arm.

“Man, you could’ve gone to uni for free, shut up.”

Aleix guffaws, hopping off the table and following Pedro across the lawn to his backdoor.

“Christ, how old do you think I am.”

Pedro lets Aleix follow him inside, stopping him with a pointed look at his boots as they cross the threshold. Aleix kicks them off with a haughty eyebrow raise and trails after Pedro, through his laundry into the kitchen.

“Like fifty,” he says, once Aleix has reinstated the height difference between them — seating himself on the kitchen bench to track Pedro as he bustles around the kitchen, filling the kettle and fetching two mugs down from the cupboard.

“You’re fucked,” Aleix says, and then his hand comes out lightning fast as Pedro passes, hooking him by the back of his neck. He pulls, sets Pedro off kilter until he stumbles into the open V of Aleix’s legs, stomach pressed against the edge of the counter.

The kettle clicks off, loud as a gunshot in the silence that’s settled between them. Aleix is staring down at him, eyes creased with the barest hint of a self-satisfied smile. It kicks Pedro’s nervous system into overdrive — jacks his heartrate up, spills cold down his spine. He smells like cigarettes and honey.

Four seconds later, Aleix releases him, leans back till his head hits the crockery cupboard and smiles innocently. Pedro could’ve sworn he’d been standing there for hours, lit like a fire, 100 degrees where Aleix’s palm had been pressed to his nape. He coughs, clears his throat and backs out of Aleix’s space, diligently not brushing his knees on the way out.

“Do you know how I take my coffee?” Aleix asks as Pedro levers the top off the Moccona, voice flat like whatever that was hadn’t just happened.

Pedro stills, teaspoon in the sugar canister.

“Nuh.”

“Guess.”

“Fuck, you’re annoying,” he breathes. Aleix cackles, throws his head back — Pedro hears it thunk against the cupboard again. He measures two sugars into his own mug, and then one and a half into Aleix’s, followed by a heaped spoon of instant into each. Standard. Inoffensive. He can feel Aleix’s eyes on him as he sets the kettle to reboil again while he stirs in the milk. Tracking, unwavering. Heat prickles on the backs of his arms.

“You working tomorrow?”

Pedro blinks. “You made the roster," he says, plucking the steaming kettle off it's base.

Aleix shrugs in his peripheral.

“No," Pedro continues, holding back an eye roll. "Can if you need me to, though.”

“Wilkies’ run out of money so build’s been put on hold.”

“No shit.” He slides Aleix’s coffee across the counter towards him, eyebrows raised. That'd gone south fast. “Few days off then.”

“Looks that way. Come out to mine tomorrow.”

Pedro chokes on his coffee, splutters back into the mug, red-faced.

“For what?” he manages, hoarse and wiping his mouth. Aleix is grinning at him again. He looks knowing.

“Bonfire. Got a big pile of shit in my backyard that I’ve been meaning to burn.”

Pedro pictures it instantly. Wishes he hadn't in the same second. Aleix, painted red and gold by wild, hot streaks of fire. Heat warping the air around them, frost on their breath despite it. An excuse to stand too close. Aleix’s got land. He’d probably be able to see the stars clear as anything overhead, that far out of town.

“Yeah. Alright.”

Aleix takes a long sip, letting Pedro’s answer settle in the air.

“I’ll pick you up,” he says. It’s final. No room for negotiation. Pedro doesn’t even mind. Doesn’t know why he lets Aleix just tell him what to do — all it takes is one touch, one sharp-toothed grin, and he goes brainless. Pliant like clay. Fucking embarrassing.