Date: Tue, 13 Apr 1999 21:07:45 GMT
From: Red Racer <red-racer@iname.com>
Subject: Fucking the Champion, M/M, celeb, oral, anal

Fucking the Champion, a story by Red Racer, M/M, celeb, oral, anal

This is fiction. The incidents depicted in this story are the work of
the author's imagination. Though any resemblance to actual persons or
localities is entirely intentional, this does not in any way make any
allegations as to activities past, present or future.

Comments welcome at red-racer@iname.com

********

Laguna Seca Raceway, Monterey, California 1997

"So," he said, backing against the wall of the motorhome, his
luminescent eyes shining hungrily, his Italian-accented voice teasingly
flippant, "do you wanna fuck the champion?"

His Californian team mate, the '96 Indycar champion and the man who
while winning the day's race had seen his team mate and best friend
take his crown by virtue of finishing third, smiled at him slowly,
unsure. Outside they could hear the team celebrating its second
championship in a row. They'd be missed soon.

The smell of freshly sprayed champagne hung between them. They were wet
with it.

"Come on," the Italian said softly. "I know you want to."

Jesus. To have this now, what he'd wanted for so long, when he hadn't
dared hope... This had to be some kind of joke. He closed his eyes,
trying to still his galloping heartbeat, trying not to give too much
away, trying not to give away the fact that he was suddenly, painfully
hard, that he wanted this so fucking much and had wanted it for so
long. He opened his eyes, stared at the Italian standing there in the
shadows, watched the pupils of those beautiful deep-set eyes expand and
contract in the dim light, watched his sides moving in and out and that
handsome, thin-featured face caught in an expression of triumph,
affection and I-dare-you bravado... Christ but he wanted this. He
exhaled sharply and the sound was like a gasp in the confined space of
the motorhome. He searched his team mate's face; looked for some sign
that he was being toyed with, being made a fool of. But there was
nothing like that in the Italian's eyes.

"Yeah, but not here."

He moved closer to the Italian. The podium celebration had been as
much a release as anything; he hadn't won a race all season despite
being the reigning champion and the victory today had been a long time
coming. But for his team mate to clinch the championship; that too was
worth celebrating. He'd surprised him in front of the cameras, swooping
down on him to land a kiss on his cheek while he'd been telling the
ESPN reporter that the joy of winning the Cup hadn't sunk in just yet;
the Italian had been surprised by the friendly assault but not annoyed
by it.

Now, with the post-race commotion outside and the two of them here -
alone, champagne soaked, the sweet smell of burned methanol fuel still
on their race suits, the sweat from their exertions still fresh, he
leaned towards the Italian and kissed him again, on the cheek but
slowly this time, brushing his lips against the damp, tawny skin
lingeringly, not wanting to pull away, feeling the aching heat at his
groin as the Italian slid his face slowly around and their lips met.

This was their second year as team mates; the thirty-one year old
brown-haired, brown-eyed, laid-back Californian, the Morgan Hill kid
who'd made good and worked his way to the top with nothing but talent
and determination to his name, and the bright-eyed, fiery Italian from
Bologna who'd taken the sport by storm after an aborted Formula 1
career that saw him involved in a crash that could have killed him and
who they were saying was one of the greatest racers of his generation,
perhaps of all time. Only 2 pounds, eleven months and half an inch in
height separated them. They'd become friends quickly; he was quiet,
self-contained, not given to making close friends easily, but the
Italian's outgoing nature, his childlike enthusiasm for the job, his
willingness to always think the best of people had won him over
quickly. They'd become very close. But never this close.

He'd known by the Italian's bantering that it was something that had
crossed both their minds several times, but that's all it had been; a
joke, nothing to take seriously, just another opportunity to rib each
other, to poke fun at other people's remarks as to how well they got
on, how they always deferred to each other in interviews and how it was
so unusual that two team mates should become so close, how there was a
tangible chemistry between them and how one of the mechanics on a rival
team had laughed and asked why didn't they just fuck each other and get
it over with. And now this racer, this demon on the track who gave no
quarter and did whatever it took to win; the man who'd stormed along to
a rival team's pit after being forced off the track in practice and
threatened to kill the driver in a fit of petulant rage while members
of both teams struggled to keep the two men apart; this man who was
setting the bench mark for future champions to measure themselves
against; this man was now, if not passive, then almost childishly
trusting as his team mate raised his hand and gently removed the
sponsor's baseball cap from the Italian's dark curls and tossed it on
to a nearby table.

"You never take this off. I bet you even sleep in the damn thing."

The Italian smiled. "Well, I gotta. You know how it is."

"Yeah." He leaned towards the Italian to kiss him again but was stopped
by a hand on his chest. He drew back, frowning with disappointment and
bitter frustration. "But I thought - " He felt like an idiot. This was
wrong, it was stupid, he must have been out of his fucking head to fall
for this, a joke played at his expense...

The hand tightened on his race suit, pulling him back, stopping him
from moving further away. "Look, I'm sorry, but not... that. You can
touch me, do anything else to me, but not that..."

But of course; he'd been wrong to expect his team mate to let his guard
down completely. Not even the elation of winning a championship would
ever convince him to go that far. He felt his heart sink, felt a twinge
of anger at this unprompted display of Italian macho bullshit - just
because the Italian was married, whatever they did now didn't have to
change how he felt about his wife, did it? This was separate, it was
different...ah, fuck it...

He turned away, trying hard to give the impression it didn't matter.

"Hey - "

He ignored his team mate, picking up the towel from where it lay draped
over a chair and burying his face in it, wiping away the sweat, the
dust, feeling the trip-hammer beat of his heart slow gradually, felt
his initial arousal ebb back slowly from where it had come. He pushed a
hand through his hair and looked around for his own hat. It was time to
go out and face the hordes again. He could hear Alex fidget agitatedly
in the background.

"Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean - "

"Save it," he said. "It doesn't matter. It's no big deal." He looked up
at the Italian, saw the hurt on his face; he looked like a kid,
contrite, bewildered, maybe even a little embarrassed at the fact that
the invitation he had extended had been rebuffed.

Well let him stew, he thought. He's no idea what can of worms he's
opened. He felt angry, belittled, that the Italian should treat him
like some charity case, because well, hey - it was what he'd wanted.
Well, fuck that.

"C'mon," he said, grabbing his own cap. "They'll be waiting for us, and
Christ knows Chip's not gonna be happy if he finds out we've
disappeared. Time to do the smiling and nodding thing. Let's go, huh?"

He didn't wait for an answer. As he exited the motorhome into the glare
of the late-afternoon, California sun, he was immediately surrounded by
a waiting mob of reporters and a microphone stuck into his face. "So,
Jimmy, tell us - what's it like to finally win a race this season and
how do you feel about giving up the Cup to your team mate?"

He was immediately on autopilot, smiling for the cameras, mouthing the
usual banalities he knew the sponsors and the fans wanted to hear. He
came close to losing his cool once, when some piece of shit from ABC
grinned at him like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth and asked, "Hey,
Jimmy, how come your team mate wins the championship and you've like,
only won once this season with the same equipment?" He turned to the
guy, was about to give some sharp reply when he saw a flash of red at
the corner of his vision and he saw the Italian slip through the crowd,
heading in the direction of the pits and the track-side celebrations,
and immediately the reporters that had lain in wait for them took off
after the retreating figure. He let his shoulders slump as the tension
dissipated a little. He enjoyed a good relationship with the media for
the most part but there was always some asshole who was willing to stir
the shit for the sake of a soundbite. He should have known to expect
something like this; while not couched in the most diplomatic of terms
it was a legitimate question. He knew he'd been overshadowed by the
Italian these last two seasons; he also knew that if he didn't feel the
way he did about his team mate the situation would not have been as
bearable, no matter how much faith he had in his own abilities.

Back trackside, the celebratory hooha continued. The crews were packing
things up slowly, stopping frequently to trade high-fives and
handshakes with well-wishers. He looked for the Italian, couldn't see
him; a young woman with long blond hair thrust a program into his hand
and smiled dazzlingly at him. "Mr Vasser, I just wanted to say how cool
it was that you won today and I wondered if you'd sign - "

"Yeah, sure." He took the program from her, waited patiently for her to
give him her pen, signed his name on the cover quickly and handed it
back to her.

"Wow, thanks. You're the best. I'm sorry you didn't win more this
year."

"Well, that's racing, I guess." He smiled at her, wishing she'd go
away; he knew if he stood still for longer than two seconds he'd have
fans and reporters on him like flies on shit and he didn't think he
could handle all the attention right now. With the win had come a
release of pressure, but it had also brought with it exhaustion and he
wanted to leave as soon as possible, spend some time with the friends
he hadn't seen for so long, the father who seemed to be too busy these
days to come to the races but who had been with him every step of the
way when he'd been working his way up through the ranks as a youngster,
and of course call his mother who, knowing her, would have been glued
to the TV set at her home in Seattle, shrieking her head off with joy
as her son took the checkered flag.

"Ah, my other number one." His team boss came towards him, his arms
spread expansively, a tone of slightly forced joviality in his voice.
The two were not close and had had their differences in the past; the
overweight son of a millionaire who'd built the team up from a one-car,
poorly-funded outfit with his father's money and his own determination
and savvy business sense held a dim view of his driver's laid-back
approach and steadfast refusal to be forced into a sponsor-friendly
mold, no matter how much he might trumpet it as a virtue in interviews,
while his driver in turn resented the amount of time his boss spent in
meetings currying favor with the sponsors when there was a team to be
run. "You did well today. I know this is Alex's big day but it's yours
as well. How's about another interview, me with you guys, huh? Hey -
you can't blame me for wanting to show off my two winners, my boys."

He felt a meaty arm slung over his shoulder and recoiled inwardly.
Yeah, Chip, whatever.

He caught sight of his team mate, a cell phone in his hand, talking
animatedly to his wife, his mother maybe. Ecstatic members of his crew
surrounded him and he laughed as he spoke to the person on the other
end of the call.

He felt anger and a touch of envy that disappeared very quickly. He
could never find it in his heart to resent his team mate. Look at him.
The guy was on top of the world. And he deserved it. He was a nice guy,
competitive as hell but with a huge heart. They *were* close. Closer
now than they'd ever been. But that episode in the motorhome, what the
hell had all that been about? He was having as much trouble sorting out
his own feelings as he had with figuring out the Italian's motivations.
He had to speak to him. No. Pretend nothing had happened. Yeah, that
was probably for the best. He'd leave, Alex would fly back to Bologna
tonight, they'd maybe talk on the phone the following week and it'd all
be forgotten.

Forgotten. Yeah, right. That slim, hard body, those narrow hips...
Jesus, the amount of times he'd woken up in the morning at his Las
Vegas home with a raging hard-on and wishing the Italian's mouth was on
him... He remembered the time he'd woken in the early hours the Monday
after a race in which Alex had won; he couldn't get his team mate out
of his head, remembering the feel of his body against him as they'd
hugged in the winner's circle, the smell of him, the friendship and the
sheer unbridled joy at winning in those intense, piercing eyes. He'd
lain for a while, restless, knowing sleep was out of the question, and
had shaken off the tiredness and gone to the phone and called him; it
was six o'clock in Vegas which made it eight o'clock in Indianapolis,
their team's home town and the place where Alex made his home during
the racing season, and he'd heard his team mate's voice, slurred
slightly with sleep, on the other end of the line, and he'd said, "Hey,
sleepyhead. I just wanted to be the first to call you this morning to
congratulate you."

They'd talked for a while about the race, about what a pain in the ass
Chip was, about the upcoming test and other plans for the week, stupid
little things, and it hadn't made him feel any better. Now, the joy of
winning was evaporating quickly and he felt tired, irritable and
desperate to get away.

"Chip, look, I think I'll be leaving soon." He had to get out of here.

His boss frowned. This was clearly not acceptable. "But I thought you
had to be at some reception for this motorcycle charity ride thing
you're going on tomorrow. Hell, you're Honorary Chairman, for Christ's
sake."

Shit. He'd forgotten about that. It was something else he didn't need.
Not now.

"Yeah, and I'll be there, but I have some things I need to do first."
Just to get away for a bit, to try to sort out the thoughts and
emotions that were threatening to overwhelm him: anger at himself for
having dropped his guard and shown Alex how he'd really felt and at the
same time excitement because they'd almost... they could've... //C'mon,
Vasser, pull it together//, he told himself furiously. He hated himself
for letting this affect him. But the guy was his best friend, and what
had happened in the motorhome, he knew, had signaled a change in their
friendship, and - and this was what he feared the most - could perhaps
in time destroy it.

"Okay. Whatever." Chip's arm was dropped from his shoulders as the
Italian approached them and he watched, feeling slightly awkward, as
his team mate was caught in a huge bear hug, the thin, wiry form almost
crushed by Chip's weight. To outsiders it was pretty damned obvious
that Alex was the apple of the boss's eye but it was something they'd
never let come between them, something else for other people to talk
about, nothing more, but the look in Alex's eyes as he glanced over at
him was one of concern and the knowledge that something was wrong
between them. He looked away; he could still taste the Italian's sweat
on his lips and he wiped his mouth angrily with the back of his hand.

"Hey, are you okay?" Later; the celebrations winding down, the track
almost empty of spectators now, the track-side banking littered with
hot dog wrappers and discarded programs, the smell of exhaust fumes and
clouds of dust as the team transporters pulled out of the paddock.

"Yeah, why the hell wouldn't I be?"

"What happened back there... I didn't mean - "

"Look, forget it." His voice was sharper than he'd intended it to be.
"Just drop it, Alex, okay? Nothing happened."

"Well... my plane leaves at eight. I guess I better get going."

"Fine. I'll give you a lift back to the hotel."

Back at the transporter they changed into their street clothes without
looking at each other. He pulled a tee shirt angrily over his head and
fished his wallet and car keys out of his locker.

They made their excuses and farewells and left as the team finished
packing up. Getting away from the track proved to be a bitch; traffic
was still heavy, and it was only when they hit the highway that the
road cleared somewhat and they were able to speed up to something a
little faster than a crawl. The Italian, sitting next to him in the
passenger seat of the NSX he'd been given by Honda for winning the '96
championship with their engine, was silent. The tension was getting on
his nerves. Led Zeppelin played on the stereo; it was a bootleg tape of
their June 21, 1977 LA concert sent to him by a fan who knew of his
fondness for the band and he fought the urge to turn it up. God, Jimmy
Page was on fire that night. Zep brought back a lot of memories: his
first kiss; playing defensive back on his high school team the year
they won the mid-coast championship; drag racing in a blacked-out '69
Chevy Camaro on South San Jose's Bailey Road, right by Monterey
Highway, before they built the freeway; his first win in Formula Fords
in an old but trusty Crossle 32F bought from a friend of his father's
and his promise to himself that with this win would come more and that
one day he'd get to Indy.

It was only as they were heading into downtown Monterey that the
Italian broke the silence. "I'm really glad you won today," he said
quietly. "It's how I wanted it to be, you know. I wanted both of us up
there on the podium, me with the championship, you with the race win.
It felt right. It felt... good."

He smiled at the Italian, feeling himself thaw towards his team mate.
//How the fuck does he do that?// It was impossible to stay angry at
him.

"Yeah, it felt good for me too. Hopefully next year I won't leave it so
late, huh?"

"Well, you had a lot of bad luck. It wasn't your fault. And I guess all
that tire testing over the winter didn't help much."

He snickered as he remembered; ah, yes, another inspired decision from
their illustrious team boss - him doing all the donkey work for the
tire company while Alex was concentrating on the road courses and race
setups. It hadn't seemed fair at the time, but Chip had assured him
that he'd get equal testing on the road courses this coming winter. It
had been yet another bone of contention between him and Chip, another
excuse for a shouting match. He hated arguing but he hated standing by
and saying nothing when there was something he felt strongly about. The
thing that made it more bearable was the fact that Alex had also had
more than his share of confrontations with the boss; they too were like
night and day and he smiled when he remembered Alex's words to the
camera as he was being interviewed: "Chip should kiss the ground we
walk on because he's bloody lucky to have two fantastic drivers like
Jimmy and me..." The reporters had laughed, but he'd appreciated his
team mate's words, appreciated that they were meant for him as much as
Chip.

"Hey, look, I'm sorry about back there," he said, his eyes on the road.
"I knew you were only kidding, but I guess it just kinda hit a
nerve..."

"I noticed."

There was silence for a couple of minutes before the Italian spoke
again. "It wasn't a joke, you know," he said softly. "I meant what I
said. The offer still stands. That is, if you still want to."

His hands tightened angrily on the steering wheel. Back at the
racetrack he'd realized his mistake and he was damned if he was going
to fall for this a second time.

"Alex, I think it's best if I just drop you off at the hotel and get
back. I've got this charity thing I really have to be at and I really
don't think - "

"Please. I know you want this and, well, I guess I do too. I wouldn't
have said it otherwise." The Italian punched him lightly on the arm.
"C'mon," he said wheedlingly. "Don't tell me you've never thought about
it."

//If only you knew//, he wanted to say, but didn't. God, if only the
Italian knew how much torture this was for him.

He glanced at his team mate and saw the sparkle in the eyes, that
crooked, endearing smile that melted the hearts of everyone the Italian
met and made people warm to him before they'd even spoken to him. "Hey,
buddy - have you been drinking too much of that champagne? Huh? Victory
and methanol fumes gone to your head, maybe?" He tried to inject some
levity into his voice, but his mouth was so dry he could hardly form
the words.

"Now Jimmy," Alex said, with mock severity. "You know I always take my
racing *very* seriously." He paused. "And I'm serious about this. So
what do you say?"

They looked at each other, and in that brief glance he saw the desire
in the Italian's eyes, desire for him, something he'd never seen
before, and he felt light-headed, felt the blood rush from his head,
felt the stirring in his groin and dear god please let this not be a
dream... "Jesus," he said wonderingly. "You are serious." The sudden
flood of adrenaline going through him with this realization made him
stomp down hard on the gas and he sheepishly eased up on the
accelerator.

"Jimmy, I know this may have come as a bit of a shock to you but will
you please try not to kill us before we get there?"

"You are fucking unbelievable, you know that?" he said, laughing
despite himself. "And you can calm down now - we're here."

They pulled up at the entrance to the Plaza and as Alex fetched his
room key he loitered uneasily in the lobby, trying to look like he was
supposed to be here. Inside he was shaking with nerves and excitement.
He wanted this, Jesus he wanted it so much but the timing felt all
wrong somehow, this was crazy, what the hell was he doing here? //He
only said all those things to you because he's on a high from winning
the Cup and he's feeling reckless and maybe all along he was counting
on you to say no//, a small voice jeered at him. No, that wasn't true.
Was it? An older man, obviously wealthy, well dressed, graying at the
temples, looked at him appraisingly on his way to the exit and smiled,
and he looked awkwardly down at the floor. Maybe the guy recognized who
he was, but the way he'd looked him up and down had suggested his
interest passed beyond mere recognition. He'd been told many times he
was good-looking, usually by married older women who either wanted to
mother him or held out some vain hope of a last fling before heading
into their twilight years; he knew, ruefully, that he was the kind of
guy you could take home to Mother for her approval. But he'd also had
more than his fair share of attention from guys as well, and a couple
of times he'd even...

"Hey, you look like you're somewhere else." Alex materialized in front
of him, waving his key at him. "Sorry I took so long. The girl at the
desk recognized who I was and wanted my autograph."

Ah yes, the hardships of being a celebrity. He knew that Alex loved the
attention but the times that he'd get fed up with it would not be long
in coming. That made him smile. "You're going to get a lot of that, you
know," he said to the Italian as they headed towards the elevator. "I'm
telling you now, you'd better get your running shoes on because it's
gonna be like this all the time. They'll all want a piece of you."

Alex made a face of mock despair, and then laughed. "Well, I guess I'll
take it."

In the elevator they lapsed into an uneasy silence, and he felt his
apprehension return. This was it; everything that had happened up till
now, the jokes, the closeness, the sometimes awkward silences between
them, that subtle way they had of letting each know how important one
was to the other without saying it - these all seemed to form distinct
lines that were only now converging on this point, the two of them,
here, in this elevator, going up to Alex's room. He could have dropped
Alex off at the entrance but he hadn't. They were going up to his room.
They were going up to his room, and they were going to fuck. He glanced
at Alex, saw the Italian taking a feigned interest in the lit-up row of
numbers on the control panel. His profile was shadowed, almost hawk-
like - he'd once teased Alex by telling him that from a certain angle
he looked like a young Bela Lugosi and that remark had prompted an
aggrieved bark of laughter from the Italian. Now Alex looked worried,
preoccupied, as if he was weighing up the situation and only now
realizing the enormity of it.

"Nice to see you behaved yourself today," he said, trying to dispel the
tension and bring Alex out of his morose silence. "None of that off-
road stuff you managed to pull off last year." He was referring to the
awesome move the Italian had put on the leader as they were going
through the famed Corkscrew turn: with victory seemingly in sight for
the guy in front, Alex had launched his red, Honda-powered Reynard over
the curb and onto the dirt to take the lead and storm away with the
race. It was now known, simply and reverentially, as "The Pass" and,
just a year down the road, had passed into racing legend. People were
still talking about it; highlight programs still showed replays of it.
The driver who'd had the win taken away from him was still smarting, a
fact both men in the elevator appreciated, though personally they had
no quarrel with the guy; the driver had in fact been his team mate
before the Italian had arrived on the scene. Yeah, Bryan was a nice
guy, but he needed balls, let's face it.

"Ah come on," Alex said quickly, still not looking at him. "You know I
didn't break any rules that day. And I'd have given you a bloody good
run for your money today if Bryan hadn't cut down on me in Turn 2."

"I don't think so, man. I was in complete control today, baby, complete
control. You can say what you like but you'd never have caught me."

The Italian glanced at him with a look of friendly antagonism. "You
think so? Well, I'll win next year. You and all the rest of them won't
see me for dust."

"Oh, well - fuck you, Zanardi." They both laughed, the tension broken.
It was easier this way; the usual cut-and-thrust of friendly
competition to mask the nervousness he knew they both felt.

As they exited the elevator and walked down the hallway a woman passed
them and seemed to recognize them and he remembered the man in the
lobby and again felt indecision take hold of him and that small,
insistent voice started to needle at him again - and, at the same time,
as he waited for Alex to unlock the door to his room, he felt his
arousal return and his stomach tightened with excitement.

They were in, the door shut behind them, the two of them alone in the
sterile, impersonal opulence of a luxury hotel room. The Italian threw
his key on the table and turned to him, asked him if he wouldn't rather
they go and get a drink or something first, but he was tired of
waiting, tired of Alex's nervous attempts at delaying the inevitable:
he wouldn't be palmed off with some miserable excuse this time and he
pushed Alex with gentle force up against the wall and with one hand
against his chest, holding him still, he leaned towards him.

"Jimmy - " The Italian, a tone of annoyance in his voice, turned his
face away and he felt his anger and frustration return. He dropped his
hand from the Italian's chest, moved his weight off to the side, his
forehead resting against the wall, his cheek barely brushing Alex's
shoulder. He closed his eyes, felt weariness sweep through him and with
it a fine thread of rage and bitter humiliation at being used like
this, at having misjudged the situation so badly and at having to make
all the moves while all the while it had to be on the Italian's terms.

He said bitterly: "Jesus Christ... First you tell me you want... this -
and now you've changed your mind? What? What's the big fucking deal?
Look - you can't lead me on, you can't tell me you want me and then say
no - "

He felt Alex touch him, put a hand gently on his shoulder. "I know, I
just... I just... Please, just go slow, okay? I want to but... I've
never done this before."

He looked into his team mate's eyes and realized that what he'd
mistaken for arrogant standoffishness was simply shyness and nervous
uncertainty, and he knew he'd been wrong to doubt him. "Yeah," he said
gently. "I gathered that. Look, if you're not comfortable with this,
maybe we shouldn't, huh?"

Alex closed his eyes, took in a deep breath and let it out as if coming
to some decision within himself. "No," he said, his voice steady. "I
wanna do this. And I wanna do it with you."

"Look, only if you're sure, because I don't want - " His hand was
grabbed suddenly and pressed hard against the Italian's crotch and held
there, and he felt the heat of Alex's body, felt the beginnings of an
erection through the fabric of the Italian's slacks, and his own blood
surged as if in reply. He wanted his team mate so much it was like
desperation; he felt like a man who'd been crawling through a desert
for two years and who'd suddenly been offered a banquet. He realized he
was shaking. He was so hard now it was almost painful.

"It's okay," he whispered. "We'll go slow. I don't wanna hurt you, I
don't wanna force you. You mean too much to me for that."

Alex nodded and he knew that while the Italian was still unsure he
looked a little less tense now, as if relieved that the situation was
clear now and that they both knew where they stood with each other.

He moved closer to Alex, placed his hand back on the Italian's chest
and felt his team mate's heart hammering under his palm as he put his
mouth close to his ear. His words came out softly, cajolingly; he
wanted to reassure his friend, make him relax, let him know that he was
safe and that there was nothing to be scared of.

"C'mon, baby, tell me what you want. Tell me what it's gonna be. You
can say it: it's okay, it's not gonna kill you, it's not gonna turn you
queer." He slid his mouth along the Italian's cheek, his neck, nuzzling
the dark curls, damp still and sticky with champagne; taking a sodden
tuft in his mouth he sucked the moisture from it, tasting the salt of
Alex's sweat along with the acidic sweetness of the alcohol. He could
feel Alex trembling against him. "Tell me," he murmured in his ear. "Do
you want me? Huh? Do you want *this*?" He thrust his hips once against
his team mate, gently but not so gentle that the Italian would be
unaware of his arousal, and as Alex turned his face towards him and
opened his mouth to speak he gently took hold of the Italian's jaw and
kissed him; the gimlet eyes bored into his as their lips met, then the
lids swept down and he felt the Italian's tongue meet his, tentatively,
and as he slid his hand over his friend's crotch and felt the hardness
there - Christ, the size of him - he was conscious of the growing,
ragged urgency in Alex's breathing and his caresses became rougher,
harder, until the Italian was moving his hips against him and moaning
softly into his mouth.

He took his mouth off Alex's, whispered in the Italian's ear, "I wanna
suck you off. Let me suck you off."

"No." Alex captured his mouth again, bit his tongue hard enough to
cause a stab of ecstatic pain to shoot through him.

He reached for the Italian's belt buckle, undid it with trembling
fingers and slid his hand inside.

"Jesus," he breathed and laughed, "I guess winning the championship has
fired you up some, huh?"

Alex responded with a growl, closing his eyes as the man who'd never
had anything other than a sincere smile for him despite his misfortunes
throughout the season, the man whose all-American, boy-next-door good
looks had made him wonder in an idle moment *what if...*, a man he
admired so much and respected so much despite the fact they came from
different cultural backgrounds and were so unlike each other in so many
ways despite the cursory similarity of their physical characteristics;
this man, his team mate and best friend, was undoing the buttons of his
shirt with quick, unsteady fingers; he heard Jimmy draw in his breath
impatiently and with both hands tear it savagely open the rest of the
way, baring the Italian's chest, and as buttons pattered onto the
carpet he felt the Californian's tongue swirl over his pectorals and he
swore as Jimmy's teeth gently grazed his nipple - it wasn't enough; he
needed, wanted more, and the realization of this was enough to pull the
barriers down completely, to banish the vestiges of any shame he'd
thought he might feel in admitting how much he wanted Jimmy to touch
him. "Harder, harder, c'mon..." he gasped impatiently. He felt a sharp
pain sear through him and cried out, arching his body against his team
mate; he opened his eyes and looked into the deep brown depths of his
friend's as the saliva trails on his chest and nipple cooled in the
soft salt breeze coming in from the open window.

"Fuck me." He didn't think he'd be able to say the words until he heard
himself speak them and by then it was too late. He knew now how much he
wanted this; suddenly everything else was unimportant.

"Uh-uh, not yet. I want to make you suffer a little first. This is for
putting me through hell for two seasons, for making me want you and not
being able to touch you and for knowing full well how much I wanted
you. Come on, Alex: you must have known how I felt."

"American scum," he growled furiously.

"Eye-tie piece of shit," the Californian shot back, amusement in his
voice.

They were still for a moment, resting easily against each other, each
man's breathing in counterpoint to the other's. "Do you still want..."
he said, feeling Jimmy's hand move lazily over his crotch again.

"What?" One of Jimmy's eyebrows was raised and there was a playful
glint in his eye; he was trying to keep a straight face, and the
Italian cursed himself for being drawn into this game, for being made
to ask, to beg for it.

"You know..." he trailed off helplessly, feeling shyness overcome him
again.

"To suck your cock? Well, I dunno. I guess that depends. Do you want me
to?"

He felt like screaming. "What the hell do you think?" he cried out with
frustration, his voice cracking, and he grabbed his team mate's
shoulder with an iron grip and pushed him down onto his knees, tilting
his head back against the wall and closing his eyes as he felt Jimmy's
fingers reach inside and take hold of his straining erection, drawing
it out into the open. He winced as his team mate's warm, dry palm
passed back and forth across the tender head; he opened his mouth to
protest again when he felt warm wetness envelop him and he looked down
to see Jimmy's head dip down as he took him in to the hilt. "Oh
Jimmy..." he whispered. The sensations of slick, sliding warmth, the
heat and tightness of his friend's constricting throat drove him almost
to the verge of sensory overload as he felt the Californian pull his
trousers further down over his hips and cup his full, aching balls,
squeezing them gently, making him moan as he spread his legs wider,
bracing himself against the wall behind him, and he put one hand on his
team mate's head, gathering a fistful of soft brown hair as the
Californian ran his tongue slowly along the underside of his shaft
before sliding the drooling, sticky head back into his mouth.

Jimmy paused, took his mouth off the Italian. "Jesus, Alex, I never
knew you wanted this so badly. You know, buddy, all you had to do was
say - " He wanted to say more, tease him with inaction, but Alex was
pushing roughly down on his head, forcing him to take the thick, seven
inch cock back into his mouth; he opened his throat again and took him
back into his gullet, his nose buried in the Italian's crotch,
breathing in the musky scent of him and he swallowed, moving and
tightening the ring of his throat muscles into a hard, wetly-sliding
vice around the Italian's prick and then Alex was gasping, slamming his
hips hard against his face, his breath loud and ragged with impending
orgasm and he raked his teeth hard along the Italian's prick on the
upstroke and heard him grunt and then cry out. The Italian's thighs
tensed against him and he gripped the base of Alex's prick and squeezed
hard, feeling it spasm dryly in his mouth: once, twice, then again,
hearing Alex shout with frustration, "Aaaah, fuck!!" He looked up,
noting with satisfaction the beads of sweat on his team mate's brow,
the hand splayed helplessly along the wall, the look of angry
bewilderment on his face.

He shook his head. "I told you - not yet. I'm gonna make you wait for
this. This is payback time, baby."

For a moment, he thought he'd pushed too far. The light in Alex's eyes
resolved itself into a cold, hard glint of fury, and he readied himself
for that sudden burst of quick temper he knew his team mate was capable
of but had only ever directed at other people: strangers, other
competitors, but never at his friends, never at those he cared about.
But there was always a first time. But the light died away and the
Italian let out a sound that was almost a sob, and he said hoarsely,
"Don't stop. You can't just stop, not like this."

"So beg me."

"What?" He looked down at his kneeling partner, frowning.

"You want it? So beg for it, hotshot. Come on, tell me I'm not wasting
my time here."

"No."

"Fair enough." The Californian was starting to get up; he was up on one
knee. "Guess you don't want it badly enough, then. I'm sorry."

He'd never begged anyone for anything, and he knew Jimmy knew that. But
then he felt those strong, slim fingers of his team mate slide gently
along his erection and he almost shouted out.

"Please," he gasped. "I can't stand it. Suck me. Make me come. Please."

To his dismay he saw Jimmy get to his feet anyway. He watched him with
alarm and amazement as he quickly shucked off his tee-shirt and began
to unbutton his jeans and slide them off, following quickly with his
underwear, his boots, everything, until he stood naked in front of him.
He glanced down at his team mate's crotch to see he was hugely,
impressively erect.

"What...? What the hell are you doing?"

"I'm gonna let you come. But we're gonna do this my way now. It's not
fair that we should do this all your way, don't you think?"

He laughed at the Italian's expression. "Come on, Alex! For fuck's
sake, don't look so worried."

"I'm not, I just - "

He let Jimmy approach, take his jaw in one hand and bite his lower lip
gently. He pressed his hard-on against his friend's belly and groaned.
"Jimmy, please, I'm begging you."

"You know," the Californian said gently, drawing back a little, "I'd
like to see the great Zanardi get down on his fucking knees and service
me. I'd like to ram my cock down your throat and make you take my load,
make you swallow it. But then I don't think you'd get down on your
knees for anyone, would you?"

Alex looked down, then away. "No," he said. He looked up and saw
Jimmy's expression and added softly, "Not now. But ask me again
sometime. You know I can't promise anything more than that."

"Well, I guess some things are worth waiting for, huh?"

The Italian's next words were so quiet as to be almost inaudible. "But
that doesn't mean we can't... do other things."

"No. I guess not." They looked at each other.

"I can see you're still not sure about this." Jimmy reached out and
chucked him gently on the nose. "I told you, we'll go slow. But y'know,
things would be a hell of a lot easier if you took your clothes off."

Alex slid his shirt the rest of the way off. He did it slowly,
hesitantly. He felt panic, confusion, and tried not to show it. He took
off the rest of his clothes just as reluctantly and his movements were
jerky and fumbling, and he kept his eyes on the floor the whole time.
It was so difficult, when his head said *no* and his body was screaming
something else entirely.

As he stood there, awkwardly, feeling his team mate's eyes on him, he
looked up shyly at Jimmy and then for reasons he could barely begin to
fathom, he started to laugh.

Jimmy looked at him quizzically, a half smile lurking at the corners of
his mouth. "What?" he said, joining in with the laughter. "What's so
fucking funny?"

"Us," Alex replied. "Us, here - look at us, Jimmy. What the hell are we
doing? What do you think Chip and the rest of the guys would say if
they knew, if they could see us?"

His team mate's expression was pained. "Oh, great - bring Chip into
this why don't you. Man, you really know how to kill the mood, buddy, I
gotta tell you..."

"I'm sorry...!" He couldn't stop laughing.

"Yeah, I bet you are," came the growling reply. "Chip! Oh Christ, dear
God!"

Alex stifled his laughter and assumed a contrite expression. "I won't
mention his name again, I promise."

He watched Jimmy draw near him and reach for him, putting his hands on
him again, sliding his fist down the veined hardness of his sticky,
aching hard-on, biting the curve of his neck gently as he whispered
softly in his ear: "Yeah, well Chip doesn't want you the way I do."

He craned his neck round to look at his friend. "Oh, I don't know about
that," he said, teasingly. "You may have some competition in that
department."

"Alex - for Christ's sake..." Jimmy's tone was one of exasperation but
he still couldn't help from laughing. "God, you crack me up sometimes.
You're not gonna make this easy, are you?"

Alex grinned and shook his head.

"You can be a real pain in the ass sometimes, Zanardi, you know that?"

The Italian was aware of being gently guided towards the bed, and he
let Jimmy push him down onto his back on the cool sheets. His
misgivings returned and a cold wave of panic swept over him. He wasn't
ready for this, he didn't want this -

Jimmy held him down with a hand on his chest. "No. Don't wimp out on me
now. It's not fair."

He felt his friend settle his weight on him and without thinking spread
his legs to allow him to lie between them, vaguely registering the
warmth of Jimmy's body and the cool exhalation of his team mate's
breath against his skin as the Californian trailed bites and kisses
over his chest, mauling his sensitive tits with his teeth, gnawing on
them, sucking on them. The softness of his friend's mouth combined with
the sharpness of the bites drove him crazy; he thrust his hips upwards
and began to grind his hard-on against Jimmy's stomach. "Please..." The
sound he made was almost a whimper. He was close to tears now; this was
too much, too soon, he hadn't really meant for it to go this far but at
the same time he wanted release, wanted Jimmy to do something,
*anything*, to relieve the desperate, frantic need in him.

He felt the wetness of a tongue being dragged, sliding, over his belly
and down to his crotch; as his cock was taken back into the
Californian's mouth he felt like sobbing with gratitude and he opened
his legs wider as a finger, slick with saliva, slid down into his crack
and brushed lightly across his hole. He grabbed onto the headboard
behind him with both hands, gripping on tightly. "Jim- "

"Sssh. Don't talk now. Just relax."

The finger again, rubbing gently and then sliding part-way into him,
withdrawing and then entering him again in one smooth, quick motion;
the unexpected discomfort of the invasion shocked him and he winced and
took hold of Jimmy's shoulders as if to push him away, but the
Californian gently shrugged his hands off and said: "No. Keep them
where they were. I like the way it looks." He returned his hands to the
slats of the headboard, feeling oddly reassured at how easy it was to
submit to his team mate, to let his friend take the initiative.

Jimmy took his weight up on his arms and looked down at him. The
Italian's burnt-gold skin was stretched tautly over the well-defined
muscles of his torso as he stretched his arms over his head; the
tendons in his arms stood out like cords as he gripped the headboard.
"You beautiful bastard," he breathed. "You don't know how long I've
waited for this." The Italian's physique was perfect. He took the
matter of his physical fitness seriously and it showed in the long,
lean, muscled sweep of his stomach as he stretched upwards, the way his
hips flared out slightly from his waist, the firm muscles of his thighs
bunching and relaxing as he moved gently back and forth in rhythm to
the sensations that were taking hold of him.

The burning, jutting thrust of his own erection, the insistent need of
his own desire, took hold of him again and he slid his finger back into
the furnace heat of the Italian's ass, feeling the ring of muscle
contract tightly around it; he added another finger, then another,
pushing, twisting, shivering as the current of air from the window
drifted like a caress over the seeping wetness of his cock head. Alex
moaned softly. His fingers were up to the second knuckle now, and he
whispered hoarsely, "Okay baby, this is it. Try to relax. I told you
I'd take this slow but we're going all the way now. You ready?"

Alex nodded, dumbly, and he pulled his fingers out quickly, grabbed the
Italian's hips and pulled him down towards him, impaling him slowly,
moaning as his cock slid all the way in and he felt himself suspended
in an ocean of heat, cushioned in it, drowning in it. "Ah, Christ, Alex
- " he gasped. He was close to losing it already; the feeling of being
gripped in the tight glove of his team mate's flesh was incredible,
awesome. He'd dreamed about this moment, thought about what it would be
like to be fucking Alex, to have him naked and spread underneath him,
to slam himself up inside his depths and feel the clenching tightness
of his body open up for him and enclose him, but the reality of what he
was feeling took his breath away.

He looked down at the Italian. Alex had his head to the side, his cheek
pressed into the pillow; his eyes were shut and his mouth was contorted
in a snarl of pain. His body was rigid and trembling. He rubbed his
hands gently over the Italian's chest as if to smooth the tension out
of him, staying perfectly still, waiting for a signal to continue. He
didn't want to hurt his team mate but something about the look of
tortured agony on the Italian's face made his cock swell and harden
even more. The need to come was strong now, a savage, tearing want that
threatened to overwhelm his desire to put the Italian's needs first and
the need to hear Alex scream with pleasure, pleasure he caused, to feel
that hard-muscled, greyhound-thin body arch against him as the Italian
lost himself in the ecstasy of coming. //Yeah, baby, I know you want
this. We wouldn't be here now if you didn't.//

Alex spoke and the words sounded like they were wrenched out of him. "I
can't. Stop. It hurts." He had his arm over his face now, hiding his
eyes like a child. "Please stop. Take it out. It fucking hurts. Jimmy,
please."

He leaned forward and gently pulled the arm away. The gunmetal eyes
that looked back at him were filled with angry tears.

"I know, buddy, it always does at first. Just stay still for a moment."
He kept his voice low and steady as if soothing a frightened animal.
"It's okay. It's okay."

There was an accusatory, faintly triumphant tone in the Italian's
voice. "You've done this before."

He paused for a moment before answering. "Yeah."

There was a faint smile on the Italian's lips and he massaged Alex's
thighs, feeling the iron stiffness in the muscles dissolve little by
little as the Italian began to relax. "You okay?"

"Yes, I think so. Just... take it slow. Please."

"As slow as you want, baby. I don't wanna hurt you."

He felt Alex move his hips experimentally against him, saw him frown
with discomfort, and he responded by rocking gently, withdrawing
slightly and then sliding back in, carefully, slowly, feeling the
Italian flinch and then accept him as Alex began to relax the muscles
that clenched like a fist around him.

"Alessandro," he breathed, calling him by his given name and not the
Americanized version which he knew he hated so much. "You drive me
fucking crazy, y'know? And all this time, you son of a bitch, you knew,
didn't you - " He began to pick up the tempo a little, to increase the
depth and speed of his thrusts, but his movements were still careful:
the hard, desperate reaming he wanted to give his team mate would have
to wait for another time.

As if in answer Alex grabbed hold of his thighs as if to pull him in
further, driving himself down onto the prick inside him with an ever
increasing ferocity. The Italian's eyes were bright still with pain but
his breathing was evening out now and there was something else: a
reluctantly-acknowledged, barely-felt hint of pleasure present in his
movements, in the way he angled his hips as he thrust back against him,
the way the tight planes of his face relaxed and his mouth grew slack
with arousal as his excitement returned. The Italian's hands, strong
and scarred with fingers thick and blunt and nails bitten down to the
quick, gripped his thighs hard enough to bite through to the muscle.

"Come on," Alex hissed. "You wanted me and now I'm here. You think I
don't know how you felt about me? Yeah, I've seen the way you look at
me sometimes."

"Alex, don't - "

"Do you think about me when you jerk off, Jimmy? When you're with other
men do you imagine it's me underneath you, my asshole gripping your
cock, my voice begging you for more? When you make them suck you off do
you imagine it's my mouth on you, my tongue licking your balls, my
finger in your asshole?"

"Jesus!"

"You ever think about putting your fist inside me, Jimmy, making me
scream for you? Wanna hurt the Italian piece of shit who whipped your
ass on the track this year? Come on. Fuck me. Hurt me. Show me what you
can do. God, it took you two years to admit how much you wanted me
because you were so scared of telling me how you felt, I'm amazed you
can even get it up - "

Alex was pushing his buttons and he knew it and rage swept through him.
He stretched himself out on top of his team mate and grabbing his hips
for leverage slammed into him, ignoring the cry that burst from the
Italian. He bit the underside of Alex's jaw, bent his head to swirl his
tongue in the damp hair of his armpit, turned his attention again to
the nipples and then the Italian's arms were around him, the hands
clawing at his hips, raking down his buttocks. He grabbed hold of
Alex's wrists and pinned them down onto the bed; changing the angle of
his thrust he raked the head of his cock over the Italian's prostate
and heard the soft whimpers of pain turn into groaned exclamations of
pleasure as he forced his prick deeper into the Italian. "Yeah, that's
it baby, take me into you, all the way now, all the fucking way..."

He was close, dangerously close now, and he stopped, buried to the hilt
inside his team mate, his heart slamming against his ribs. "You like
this, huh?" he rasped. "This what you want?" He stabbed into the
Italian once, hard, and had to bite his lip suddenly at the shudder
that scorched through him and that threatened to tip him over the edge.
He kept talking but hardly registered the words. "You won't suck my
cock but you'll take it up your ass, is that the way it's gonna be?
Slut. Filthy fucking whore. Yeah, like I'd let your mouth anywhere near
my prick." Alex lunged upward suddenly, capturing his mouth in a
savage, bruising kiss and he could feel the Italian grinning against
him. He let go of Alex's wrists, felt those strong arms go round him
again and two of the Italian's fingers dig into his cleft and search
for his hole; sweat broke out on his forehead and it was as if their
bodies were fused together by the shared heat of their desire as he
threw caution to the winds and began to fuck the Italian fast and hard,
slamming into him, feeling a shuddering ecstasy go through him with
every thrust. "Oh God you don't know how good this feels." The words
came out in a gasping rush. Rivulets of sweat ran down the hollow
between his shoulder blades and he drew in his breath sharply, groaning
at the slick friction of his body against the hot, damp skin of the
Italian's.

"Tell me," Alex grunted as he drove into him. "Tell me how it feels."

"You're so fucking tight. Yeah, you're loving this. Whore. Fucking
tease." He was spitting the words now, grinning insanely, aware that
his team mate was getting off on this verbal abuse; he had a fist in
the Italian's hair, forcing his head back into the pillow and as Alex's
fingers found his opening and stabbed into him he felt the cum churning
in his balls, felt the gathering tension in his hips as a wave of heat
began its journey over him. He was dimly aware of Alex urging him on,
taunting him, pleading for release with moaned obscenities that were
uttered half in Italian and half in English; looking down at him he
barely registered the screaming hunger in the Italian's eyes and that
the body he was balls-deep inside was using its own desperate rhythm to
drive him on. The hard-on that pressed into his stomach felt like a rod
of iron and he worked his hand down between their sweat-soaked bodies
and wrapped his fingers around it and began to jerk the Italian off,
timing his strokes with the rhythm of his own thrusts.

Nothing mattered now but the two of them. Everything else was
forgotten: the race, the championship, the bitterness of having his
title defense start off so promisingly only to turn to nothing, the
endless comparisons made by a critical media between himself and Alex,
the daily grind of sponsorship engagements, testing and all the other
demands on his time. Chip and the rest of the team and all the sponsors
could have been standing around the foot of the bed applauding and he
wouldn't have noticed, or cared. All that mattered was here, now, this
room, this body underneath him and the sensations that ripped through
him as he slammed into his team mate's willing flesh.

"Fucking wop bastard. Ah god, ah god, Jesus, Alex - "

He sank his teeth into Alex's shoulder and heard him cry out, felt the
Italian shudder and turn his head away as harsh, sobbing gasps came
from between his clenched teeth. He felt the sudden wet slipperiness on
his stomach as the Italian's hardness broke; the look on Alex's face
was one of intense, pain-wracked ecstasy as if he couldn't believe that
pleasure could hurt so much and that was enough, he was coming,
shouting the Italian's name as he blasted ropes of cum into the
clutching heat of his team mate's body with a force so intense it was
almost like pain; the spasms racked him and he felt torn apart,
suspended, ripped from the earth and his own body. He tasted iron and
realized he'd driven his teeth into his own lip so hard as to draw
blood.

He tangled his hands into the sheets and groaned softly as the
aftershocks passed through him, leaving in their wake an exhaustion
that was so total he was sure he'd never move again. He looked down at
Alex and felt like weeping, aware that there was a huge, idiotic grin
on his face and seeing a smile to match on the face of his team mate.
He started to pull out, but Alex stopped him - "No, don't" - and he lay
with his head on the Italian's shoulder, shaking, feeling the spent
seed trickling out around his softening prick and hearing the thudding
of his heart and not sure if it was his or Alex's.

"You know something, Zanardi?"

"What?"

"You're not half bad."

"Well, thank you, Mr Vasser. I guess I'm okay for a wop bastard, huh?"

"You fucking idiot," he laughed gently. He slid off him and they lay
beside each other, exhausted, not speaking. His body felt numb and it
was a long time before he stopped shaking. Outside he could hear the
booming of the breakers as the sweat and semen began to dry on his
body.

He felt the mattress dip as Alex shifted his weight up onto an elbow.
The Italian reached out and touched him gently on the mouth. "You're
bleeding."

He put a finger to his lip, looked at the blood on it. "Yeah."

"It's not so bad."

"I guess I got a bit carried away with the moment." He twisted his head
to look at his team mate. "You okay?"

Alex was silent as he ran his hand gently and exploratively over his
friend's body; his belly, his hip, the track of white scars on his
right thigh from where he'd broken his leg at Indy in '92. "That must
have hurt some, right?"

He raised his head to look at it. "Nah. Was in shock so I didn't really
feel anything. Was in hospital for a week though. They put a pin in
it."

Alex nodded sympathetically. In the lengthening light he looked very
young.

"You know," he said quietly, "I'd never let any other man do to me what
you did today."

"Good. I'll hold you to that."

He saw Alex smile and then look down shyly. The Italian's next words
were hesitant, as if unsure still of this new-found intimacy between
them, as if afraid that what he was about to say might breach some
unspoken rule of etiquette about what they could and couldn't know
about each other.

"Sooo... you said you've done this before. Wanna tell me about the
other times?"

He didn't answer for a moment, and Alex took this as a sign that he was
prying, that this invasion into his team mate's private life was an
unwelcome one, and he stammered quickly, "Look, I shouldn't have asked
that. It was very rude of me. I'm sorry."

"No, don't be." He rolled up onto an elbow and looked up at Alex, and
the forlorn, apologetic look on the Italian's face made him laugh. He
reached out and gently ran a finger down the side of Alex's face.

"I mean, you have every right to tell me to mind my own business - "
Alex said, rushing ahead, stumbling over the words.

"Alex. Look. God, stop, listen to me, will you? Listen to me. Look, I'm
not offended."

"But you don't want to tell me. Right?"

He felt like such a bastard for saying this. "No. Not right now. Maybe
some other time."

"It's okay. I understand."

"No, you don't. Look at me." He put a finger under Alex's chin and
lifted it. The Italian's eyes reluctantly met his.

"What we did today... I just... I just don't want to think of anyone
else right now. You understand what I'm saying? Christ, I know that
sounds like such a fucking cop out - "

Alex leaned towards him and kissed him, stopping him from saying more.
The kiss was hungry, demanding, and he leaned into it, savoring the
taste of the Italian's mouth, the slick, velvet heat of the tongue that
met his with an urgency that made his cock twitch, made him start to
get hard again.

They broke apart, looked at each other for a moment before Alex grinned
wickedly, leaned towards him and delivered a quick, cat-like lick to
the tip of his nose, grabbing onto his wrists to restrain him before
blowing softly on the wetness, making the skin itch and sting.

He swore loudly, succeeded in struggling free and he rolled his weight
onto the Italian, pinning him down, rubbing his nose furiously on
Alex's chest. "Big kid," he growled. He was aware that Alex's breathing
was becoming heavier, harsher, and that the Italian was starting to
move underneath him again, pushing his hips upwards against him gently
but insistently, and he had to fight his own returning desire, will it
to back down.

"Alex. Look, I better get going. I have to get back to this charity
thing. God, I don't wanna go, but people will be asking questions,
they'll be wondering where the hell I am. I'm sorry, buddy." He saw the
look of disappointment and resignation on Alex's face. "Oh, man, I wish
I didn't have to do this..." He buried his face in the crook of the
Italian's neck for a moment, his eyes shut, breathing in the smell of
him, a warm, sweet amalgam of sweat and spent desire. "You smell like
your car," he mumbled. He felt the answering rumble of laughter in his
friend's chest and gently sucked on the damp skin of Alex's shoulder,
soothing the bite he'd made there, trying to summon the strength to
move. He felt Alex turn his head, felt the softness of his mouth
against his cheek. The Italian said something, so quietly he couldn't
make out the words, and he raised his head as Alex cleared his throat
awkwardly and then repeated himself.

"I want you to come to Italy this winter. I want you to meet my
family."

A flood of affection for the Italian went through him. Alex had spoken
a lot about his folks back home - the mother who doted on him, proud of
her son and all he'd achieved; the grandmother who watched all his
races despite the fact she was eighty-four and could hardly make out
which car he drove; the father who'd meant so much to him and who'd
passed away from cancer the year before last but whose memory the
Italian carried with him like a talisman.

"Yeah," he said, gently. "I'd like that."

Alex smiled back at him, pleased. "Well, I guess you'd better go then,"
he said quietly. "You don't want to be late."

"I guess not."

He sat up, swung his legs off the bed and looked down at the congealing
fluids on his chest and belly. "Mind if I take a quick shower?"

"Of course not."

"Wanna join me?" He threw the question casually over his shoulder.

"Nah, I just wanna lie here for a moment."

In the shower he let the hot water batter down onto his shoulders. He
felt drained, exhausted, but inside he was singing. He'd never thought
it was possible to feel this good. He didn't know what this would do to
their friendship, had no idea where they went from here but whatever
happened between them after today didn't matter: he'd always have this,
the memory of what he'd shared with Alex. As the water sluiced the
sweat from him he felt a cool gust of air as someone slipped into the
shower with him and there was a sharp nip on his shoulder as he was
bitten from behind. "Jesus!" He pushed Alex against the wall, seeing
the impish grin on his friend's face, wincing a little as Alex reached
for his balls, squeezing them gently and, unbelievably, despite his
tiredness, he felt himself begin to get hard again. "Whoa, pal, in ten
minutes I have to *walk* out of this door - "

"I know. Don't speak."

"God, Alex - "

And as his team mate continued to touch him, to put his hands on him,
he made the surprising discovery that time, measured in thousandths of
a second on the track, was really not that important.

End