Date: Tue, 29 May 2001 16:26:10 +0100
From: Red Racer <red-racer@iname.com>
Subject: White Flag, M/M, celeb

White Flag, a story by Red Racer

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

********

P A R T  1

Night. He lies still, conscious of his breathing and of the shadows
around him, reassured by the warm solidity of the body in bed
beside him but too wired to sleep, too aware of the twinges of
restlessness like electricity in his blood, too jumpy, too much
aware of the luminous dial of the clock on the nightstand marking
time, dead time, this no man's land of the early hours of the
morning when everyone's asleep but him, and he wants to wake Alex,
wake him so that he's not alone in this state of pissed-off
wakefulness, but the Italian's breathing is slow and measured, and
as he shifts his body irritably his team mate moves with him, one
arm slung carelessly over his hip and he begins to snore gently.

Ah Jesus, fuck it -

He gently disengages himself and pushes back the sheet and gets up
in the darkness and pads down to the kitchen, hearing the muted
sound of traffic even at this early hour in the morning and cheered
a little at this aural proof of existence other than his own and he
opens the fridge, frowning, reaching at last for a bottle of ice-
cold water - too early for beer, he laughs to himself - and he
stands there, his feet cold on the tiled floor, shivering a little
with the cold that comes in off the desert like a curse as soon as
the sun sinks, and the water chills his mouth as it goes down and
he begins to relax a little, feeling his tense muscles unknot and
the tightness in his stomach dissolve. There is something eating at
him but he doesn't know what. He's just come off a win, a win on a
short oval, something the team, and himself, had never managed
before - it seemed they'd conquered everything else but this - and
not only a win, but a one-two, him taking the win with Alex second
and god, that victory had been so sweet, the two of them in the
winner's circle, that feeling of sheer fucking invincibility -
that's it, there's nothing left, nothing better than this - and the
look of eager, almost unbelieving happiness on Alex's face,
happiness for him, happiness for them both...

Alex. The knot in his stomach returns and he is forced to face the
fact that it somehow revolves around Alex, this feeling of fear, of
uneasiness, of a sense of waiting for something to happen, a sense
of impending change, of distance between them, physical distance,
an end to what they'd shared as team mates and friends for the past
three years. Yeah, that was it. Facing it didn't make it go away,
didn't lessen the tension that gripped him every time he noticed
that Alex wasn't talking about next year, asking about changes to
the car or their strategy for certain tracks, wasn't wondering
whether Honda could possibly supply them with an engine as good as
this year's or about plans for winter testing, and while he himself
was content to take things one race at a time, not to worry too
much about the future, he'd catch Alex sometimes in moments of
distracted introspection and know that he was missing home, missing
friends and family, missing the life he'd left behind to come here
to revive the career that had stalled after an accident that saw
him ricochet into the barriers on a Grand Prix circuit in Belgium
way back in '93 and which had rendered him temporarily blind and
partially paralyzed for four months.

He wasn't looking for friendship with Alex; he'd never grown
particularly close to his previous team mates and it had been a
surprise to him how quickly he'd warmed to the Italian. The bond
between them now was very strong - they were more than just
friends, more than just fuck-buddies now - God, that afternoon in a
Monterey hotel room looking down at the Italian lying, moaning
beneath him, feeling his hardness enclosed in hot, slick flesh,
feeling Alex squeeze him from the inside...

He crushed the plastic bottle in his hand. The first time he'd
invited Alex out here they could hardly keep their hands off each
other. He'd explored every inch of the Italian's body, mapped out
the terrain of those hard, muscled curves with hands and tongue,
explored that mouth and ass with fingers and tongue and prick...
Jesus.... learning the sounds Alex made when he came, the way he
responded when he touched him, the sated look in those intense,
dark eyes. He couldn't give this up, couldn't make himself step
back and push these feelings away, prepare himself for the time -
and it would come, he was sure of this, and perhaps sooner than he
cared to admit - that Alex would leave.

He knew Daniela was pregnant. Alex had come to him, full of
trepidation and excitement and had told him, and he'd spontaneously
hugged the Italian and had felt happiness for his friend; happiness
mixed with a sense of such loss that he himself would probably
never have kids - //I've never looked at a woman and wanted her the
way I want you// - and he felt the tears come.

He thought again of the Italian asleep upstairs, and knew that
impending fatherhood excited and scared Alex. He knew Alex was
worried he'd be too hard on the kid; not hard enough; try maybe to
emulate the father he missed so much.

Streaks of light began to creep over the horizon. He shivered in
the cold. Damn you, Alex. Why now? Why this? I've met the best
friend I ever had, someone I've cared for over the past three years
more than any other, just to lose him. He felt anger and a harsh
bitterness that left him spent with the force of it. What scared
the shit out of him now was trying not to face how much the Italian
meant to him because he knew that it was only then that he would
realize what he was about to lose. And that way lay madness...

He went back upstairs, slowly, making out the Italian's body under
the sheet, outlined in the gray dawn. He slid under the covers next
to Alex's warmth and felt the Italian reach for him, and it almost
undid him, this blind, tired need of Alex to touch him and be
touched in return, even in sleep, and he felt Alex twine his body
around his coldness to warm him and he choked back his misery and
bitter distress to put his arms around his team mate. Sandro, you
always do the right thing, always care so much, always try so hard
to make everyone who's close to you happy, but sometimes you can't
avoid hurting the ones who mean the most to you...

He felt Alex bury his face in his shoulder, heard a mumbled "Caro"
and he tightened his embrace, and it was as if Alex could feel his
distress because he seemed to wake a little. "You're cold," he
said.

"Yeah, I was thirsty and I wanted a drink. It's okay, baby, go back
to sleep."

"'M awake now."

He smiled. "Yeah, you are."

He heard Alex's tired laugh and felt Alex's fingers run down his
chest and stomach and cup his balls, and he could feel himself
responding, feel his cock stiffen and lengthen as the Italian
wrapped his hand around it and his breathing quickened and he
searched for Alex's mouth in the darkness and they kissed,
fumblingly. He slid his knee between Alex's legs and felt the
Italian's erection bump against his hip and he didn't want this,
didn't want Alex to want this but Jesus, the way Alex touched him
down there, reaching under his balls to rub his perineum, smoothing
a thumb over the wetness of his cock head and raising it to his
lips and he opened his mouth and sucked on the Italian's thumb and
tasted his own juices and he grabbed the Italian's hips in sudden
anger, pulling him towards him, mashing his hardness against
Alex's, reaching down and holding them both, tight, hard, his hips
thrusting out of pure reflex so that they rubbed together and Alex
came a split second after he did, the Italian giving a muffled cry
as he buried his face into his team mate's shoulder once again.

He slid down and licked the Italian clean, tasting their mingled
fluids, taking the still semi-turgid cock into his mouth and
searching with the tip of his tongue into Alex's slit for the last
of the cum that oozed there, and Alex pulled him up and kissed him,
exploring his mouth for the last taste of himself, and he wiped off
the spent fluids on his own body with a corner of the sheet and
then slid his arms around the Italian and he listened while Alex's
breathing slowed and the Italian drifted back into sleep, and he
was left, alone again in his wakefulness, waiting for the morning.

***

"Jesus! Stronzo... Stronzo di merda... Fuck! FUCK!"

Rio: changing wearily after the race in front of the lockers in the
team transporter with the sweat and dust of the race still on him,
almost dizzy from fatigue and lack of fluids, hardly able to
breathe in this godawful heat - //fucking air conditioning on the
fritz, when will they fucking fix it?// - hearing Alex enter like a
whirlwind, a loud clatter accompanied by Italian imprecations as
the door slammed behind his team mate and a blur went sailing past
him as Alex threw his helmet bodily into a corner. A fist slammed
into the locker door beside him.

"Whoa. Hey, hey. Calm down. Relax. Calm down."

Alex stood before him, trembling, enraged, his fists clenched, his
breathing heavy, almost in tears. He reached to put his hands on
the Italian's shoulders but at the last minute thought better of
it. Something told him his team mate didn't want to be touched, and
he drew his hands back.

"He cost me a win, today, Jimmy. That fucking son of a bitch of a
backmarker cost me a win, can you believe that? I should have won,
I should have fucking won - "

"I know, I know, buddy. Calm down."

"It's easy for you to say - you didn't lead 117 laps! You know,
they brought the blue flag out for him, but he didn't move over, he
stayed right there, in my way - he even slowed down and there was
nothing I could do to stop Greg getting around me..."

He offered nothing, letting the Italian rage himself out. He'd
already seen how Alex had taken off down pitlane once he'd got out
of his car after the finish, had sprinted towards the German driver
who'd held him up and confronted the man with angry words and
gestures before being restrained and taken away by a CART official.
And now here he was, his anger not yet spent, his sense of self-
righteous disgust like a living breathing thing in the transporter
with them.

"And you know what CART will do? Nothing. They show the blue flag,
no one moves over. Nobody takes any action. I had the fastest car
out there. I had everything under control until *that car* - which,
by the way, cost me second place in Homestead - got in my way. And
now I am second instead of first. What can you do?"

Alex turned away, wiping his sleeve across his eyes. He felt his
partner's bitter disappointment.

"Alex," he said softly. "Everyone loses sometime. You drove a hell
of a race, but sometimes that's the way it goes."

"I know. I know. It's just - " Alex shook his head - "depressing. I
lost a race I shouldn't have lost, with only four laps to go. And
now Greg has the lead in the championship." He shrugged. "I'll get
over it, but right now it hurts. It *hurts*..."

Alex looked at him, still filled with anger but almost apologetic
now, like a child who needs reassurance, affirmation that he still
did a good job and that his listener understands his pain.

He could do that for his team mate. He could listen, offer
sympathy, offer love and understanding, a shoulder to lean on, a
more level-headed point of view to counterbalance the Italian's
passionate extremes of emotion. It was, and always had been, one of
the reasons they fit so well together.

"C'mon, buddy," he said. "It hurts now, but tomorrow you'll realize
you finished second and if that's a bad day for you, well, the rest
of us might as well go home, let's face it. Look at me - I finished
sixth, my car was great for the first half of the race but it was
an ill-handling piece of crap for the rest. I wish I had your bad
luck."

"I guess... It was a great move of Greg to get round me like that.
And the fact he trusted me enough that I wouldn't take us both off.
Maybe that'll show everyone I'm not the bad boy they say I am."

"That's my boy. So, can I get a bit more from the returning warrior
than just Italian cursing and helmets thrown in my direction?" He
leaned back against the locker.

Alex frowned and turned away. "Not now," he said. "Not here."

Okaaaay... When, then? Since they'd arrived in Brazil the Italian
had been strangely standoffish with him; yeah, he'd still allowed
his team mate to touch him, but touch was as far as it went, and
even then only within limits. Alex had been like a wound-up spring
all weekend; he'd put it down to a rare case of pre-race jitters
but with the Italian's latest outburst still ringing in his ears,
this was something that went deeper. All he knew was that he'd be
in bed with Alex; they'd make out for a little while, he'd feel the
Italian get hard and he'd reach down to touch his team mate's cock
and as quickly have his hand yanked away as if he'd committed some
unforgivable sin of trespass. Alex would take his hand and place it
somewhere else; his hip, his chest - "Jimmy, I don't feel like it,
I don't want to, not tonight - " - //yeah, you have a hard-on that
could break concrete but you don't feel like it// - and he'd feel
rejected, angry, confused - //is it me? what have I done? what??//
and he'd feel his own erection wilt in response.

And now, here: that same shying away, the same evasion, the same
total lack of communication as to *why*. But he knew part of him
was being unreasonable. His team mate was angry because he'd lost a
race he thought he should have won. And god knows a team
transporter on a Sunday afternoon wasn't the most private of
places, as they'd already found out once to their cost. But hell,
all he wanted was a touch, a word, something, anything other than
this invisible barrier that seemed to have sprung up between them
since they'd arrived here. Right now, his home in Vegas with its
big double bed and the attendant pleasures they'd shared there
seemed very far away.

"I have to go," Alex was saying. "I have to go to the press
conference now. Though right now it's the last thing I feel like."

"I guess I'll see you later, then."

The Italian nodded once, seemed about to say something, and then
turned to go. Just before he stepped back outside he said quickly,
"Thank you for your words. I know it wasn't really that driver's
fault. It's just that, right now.... I have a lot of things I have
to think about. I am sorry for yelling at you." And he was gone.

He finished getting changed. "Yeah, buddy, whatever it is, take
your time. I'll still be here when you've sorted out what's eating
you. Dependable, reliable Jim. Old Fucking Faithful."

***

"C'mon, fucker, let me in. Open wide for me now, come on."

Pinning Alex down to the bed, forcing his legs apart as their
bodies moved together in the hot mingled sweat of arousal and
terror.

"Jimmy, please - "

"Come on, baby. You have a fucking hard-on. I know you want this.
You can't tell me you don't want this."

"No." Alex wrenched his wrists from the Californian's grasp and
tried to wriggle out from under him. The distress on his face was
evident in the semi-darkness. "I said, *no* - "

Panic now, a fist swinging for him and missing (deliberate?), hands
slapping him away -

"Okay." He drew back, breathing heavily, putting space between
them. "Okay."

Alex turned away from him onto his side and drew his knees up to
his chest as if gathering himself into a protective ball. His
shoulder shook, once, and he brought his arm up to cover his head
as if for protection and refuge.

"Jesus, Alex - " he reached out and touched the skin of his team
mate's shoulder, and felt how it had gone cold, and how it twitched
under his touch like the hide of a frightened animal. "Jesus. What
is it? What the fuck is it? Please tell me what's wrong. My god, if
I've hurt you, done anything to upset you, will you please at least
tell me?"

No answer, only an overwhelming sense of being shrunk away from, of
having a heart that was so open to him, so full of love for him,
suddenly become closed to him and replaced by cold, empty distance.

Anger gripped him. "Come on, fucking talk to me, you goddamn son of
a bitch. After all we've been through, all we've fucking meant to
each other, you owe me at least that."

When Alex spoke, his voice was partly muffled. "I love you, Jimmy."

"I know you do, baby." His voice softened. "And I love you. I
didn't think that was ever in any doubt." He lay back down beside
the Italian but was careful not to touch him. He lay looking at the
hunched, still trembling shoulders, the dark splodge of hair
against the white of the pillow, the curve of the spine under the
skin as Alex lay with his back to him. He could feel no heat
emanating from his partner's body.

"Please. I'm only going to ask you once more. Please tell me what
it is that's upsetting you."

Alex turned slowly to face him. "I'm sorry, Jimmy. I'm sorry..." A
hand reached out to touch him briefly and then withdrew. "I know I
haven't been a very good bedmate lately."

"Christ, Alex, that's the least of my worries, but I'm not gonna
say it doesn't hurt when you push me away without telling me why.
But we've hardly talked these last few days, and I know something's
eating at you. It hurts me more that you don't feel you can tell me
when it's obviously affecting the way we are together."

"I did tell you. I'm upset because of the way the race turned out.
I told you all this in the transporter."

"Okay, now you're just fucking insulting me. It's more than that.
You've been like a bear with a sore fucking head ever since you got
off the damned plane. We hardly spoke two words to each other on
the Friday and you went out of your way to avoid me all through
Saturday. Both nights, when you came to my room, it felt like you
were doing it because you felt you had some fucking obligation,
like it was something you had to do but dreaded anyway, and as soon
as I put my hands on you I got the big fucking freeze and 'not
tonight, Josephine'. Like I say, maybe this would be easier if I
knew what the fuck was wrong and what I'd done to cause it."

Alex paused as if considering that what he was about to say might
throw the basis of what they meant to each other into doubt, that
it might cast any future they had together into chaos and
uncertainty.

And when he spoke, it did.

"Daniela wants to leave the United States and go back to Italy. She
wants our child to be brought up at home. And she wants me with
her."

Oh.

***

Stupid, so fucking stupid to ever think he could deny this would
come. It shocked him to think he could be so capable of denial,
when he'd never before been one to turn away from the harsh hand
life sometimes dealt out. The divorce of his parents when he was
eighteen; the day to day drudgery and sweat of saving money, trying
to hold down college and a job just for those liberating two hours
on a Sunday when he could forget all the bullshit and drive, drive
his heart out and maybe catch the eye of a sponsor or team owner
willing to take a chance on him and secure his future. And his own
emergent sexuality; the realization that he was more attracted to
men than women and that this was a fact he knew he could not make
known to everybody, not even to some of those close to him, and his
acceptance of the fact that the world of professional sport is the
last great bastion of homophobia there is.

He loved the Italian with all his heart; had never fallen so hard
for anyone. He loved this man who was not conventionally handsome,
was demanding and argumentative and could sometimes be a royal pain
in the ass. He loved his warmth, his humor, his gentleness, the
fact that once you were his friend he would die for you and that
when you were with him you felt like you were the only thing that
mattered to him, this man who could console him with a smile and
knew when to tell him he was full of shit, this man who when they
were alone and naked could make him fully hard with a single word
or look.

The signs had been there; he had simply ignored them. Of course the
Italian was homesick; he'd spent the last three years here in a
country that was not his own, away from family and childhood
friends and people who loved him. Alex was thankful for the
opportunity he'd been given - "I came here with nothing but a
suitcase full of dreams," he'd once said, pleased with his own turn
of phrase - but mindful too of what he'd had to give up to make the
most of it. Alex had talked too of wanting to start a family and of
having the child grow up speaking Italian, and he knew too the love
he had for his wife - it was a different love, different to what
they had - but no less important; Alex needed the stability and the
security of the relationship he had with Daniela.

But to face this now, to imagine a time in the future when Alex
would no longer be with him - no, there's still time, he can't give
up racing, it's in his blood, it's what he was born to do; he could
no longer give up racing than he could breathing, even for the sake
of fatherhood -

His voice came out in a croak. "I guess I should have expected
this."

Alex touched his hand, gathering it up in his own. "I'm sorry,
Jimmy. It's not just Daniela. We both think this is for the best,
the best for the baby. And she hasn't been happy here, you know
that. And I miss my home."

"And your driving? Will you take time off to be with your kid?"

"You know I had some inquiries from Formula One last season, but I
turned them down because I wanted to stay here and defend my
championship, finish out my contract with Chip. And I didn't
want... to leave you. We hadn't.... things between us weren't as
they are now, and I knew how you felt about me, and I wanted to
make sure that before I ever left I would tell you I felt the
same."

"Ah fuck - " He got up off the bed, turning away so that the
Italian would not be able to see his tears. He choked down his
distress. "So, will you go to Formula One?"

"I hope to, yes. I've been in contact with Frank Williams since
before Christmas, and lately he's shown that he might be seriously
interested in having me replace Jacques Villeneuve. It'll be a good
opportunity - the team will be getting BMW engines the year after
next and if I can get in on their development program from the
ground up I might be in a situation good enough to win them some
races and maybe eventually a championship."

He opened his mouth to speak and couldn't.

Alex continued: "It'll be hard work, but for the bulk of the year
I'll be near Monte Carlo, where we'll live during the season, and
my mother and Daniela's mother in Italy, so the kid will be able to
see his grandparents. It's a good opportunity for me, Jimmy, and if
I get an offer I would be stupid not to take it."

"Of course you have to do what's best for your family." The words
sounded strange and unnatural, like they were not his own.

He stood, shaking, looking out of the hotel window at the lights
over Rio, and then he heard movement and felt the Italian's arms go
around him from behind and Alex rest his cheek on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you all this until now. I needed to find
the right time, and it never came. When we are together, nothing
else seems important, I can forget about everything else, push
everything else away. I should have told you but I knew it would
hurt you, knew it would hurt us both. I'm sorry."

"All of this affects us, as friends and as a team. You should have
told me."

"I know."

"So," he said, turning around and biting back his grief, "When you
go to Formula One, will you get me one of those paddock passes that
only the rich and famous are allowed to have?"

"Oh shit, Jimmy - "

Alex's arms went around his neck and he held on to his team mate
tightly, burying his face in the Italian's neck, feeling Alex's
nakedness against his. //No, this isn't happening this isn't
fucking happening...// He tangled his fists in the Italian's hair,
gathered handfuls of it while he put his mouth on his team mate's
and kissed him frantically, almost savagely, desperate for
affirmation of what they felt for each other, needing Alex to show
it. "Ah fuck I don't wanna lose you..." he whispered.

"Jimmy - " Alex returned his kiss, cradled his cheek gently with
his palm until he felt some semblance of peace return and his grief
lessened a little. "Nothing's been decided yet. Who knows, I may
still be here next year. If someone had told me four years ago that
I would be here, now, I wouldn't have believed them. Now, come back
to bed, my friend."

***

They flew back to the States along with the other drivers and teams
the next morning. He'd spent a restless night; Alex hadn't slept
much either. He'd put his arms around the Italian and they'd lain
like this for a long while; at around 4 o'clock in the morning
while it was still dark Alex had taken the Californian's hand and
placed it on his semi-erect cock and they'd made love, slowly, and
he'd tried to hold back a cry of anger and despair as he'd pushed
inside the Italian's body. He came up hard against the brink of
orgasm but couldn't seem to make that last leap over the edge, and
Alex had urged him to let it go, to let it out, to let it all out,
and he'd bitten down on the Italian's nipple until the blood burst
against his teeth and Alex had held his head tight to his chest as
he sucked. Appalled, he'd tried to pull away, but Alex had held him
until he'd orgasmed inside the Italian's body. He'd pulled out,
tears crowding his eyes. "If you leave - " he'd started, but Alex
had put a hand over his mouth and quietened him, and they'd lain
quietly, while he felt panic and hope go through him simultaneously
- perhaps Formula One wouldn't want his team mate, perhaps Alex
would decide to stay for another couple of years. Yeah, he'd
thought bitterly - //and if wishes were horses we'd all be knee
deep in crap//. And now, just when it seemed this was a period of
his life that was damn near perfect, could go on forever; now that
he had Alex, he was going to have to get used to losing him. And he
knew also that the anger and misery that accompanied this
realization would be something he would also have to fight. And
that sure as hell wasn't going to be easy.

And so it turned out to be. The small fissures that appeared in
their closeness at Rio could not long withstand this seismological
emotional upheaval, and he tried hard to maintain the integrity of
the foundation of their friendship and love for each other while
resenting the outside world for chipping away at it. The constant
calls from the Williams team, the non-appearance of his team mate
at press conferences due to shuttling the wife back and forth for
check-ups, the fact that even when they were together they would
have hardly any time in each other's company because Alex, as
defending champion, would be called away for yet another
sponsorship appearance or PR event.

He didn't want to feel like the one left behind; this had happened
to him before and he was sure as fuck not going to let it derail
him again. He threw himself into racing, into winning: just as
before, when he was younger, it was the only thing that could make
it all go away, that could give sense to all the bullshit. Alex won
at the next race, Gateway, and he followed it up with a win of his
own at Milwaukee, a short oval just like Nazareth where they'd
banished the team's jinx of not being able to get a handle on the
one mile ovals. Standing there on the top step of the podium, his
crew cheering him, the crowds in the stands applauding wildly, it
almost felt then like he'd make it.

On race weekends now Alex would no longer come to his room as often
as he had done, and for the first time since their relationship had
become physical they started sleeping apart. It was a mutual
decision. He didn't want the torture of Alex's body in bed beside
him; didn't want to be reminded constantly of what he would soon no
longer have. Alex had greeted this proposal with relief as if
distance was the only thing that could keep their relationship from
imploding entirely - he knew the reason Alex had spurned him at
Rio, that it was a move on his part to create this distance, a
buffer-zone that might lessen the pain of their parting - and the
anguish in him had been given fresh fuel at the Italian's ready
agreement. He remembered Alex's words - that he might not leave,
that nothing was decided - but he already knew in his heart that
come year's end their partnership would be over.

Negotiations between the Italian and the Williams team became
progressively more serious; news of the Italian's possible
departure began to leak out, and at every race they went to Alex
was interrogated by reporters as to his plans for the following
season. Nowhere did this become more noticeable and invasive to the
sharp focus both men tried to keep on their racing than in
Cleveland. They compared notes during practice, sharing information
as always but in an atmosphere that was strained and awkward; the
close proximity of the Italian was driving him crazy but he felt
almost desperate to be near him, and he was forced to watch, grim-
faced, as a reporter button-holed Alex after their briefing and
asked, television crew in tow, "Is it true you've already signed a
contract to go to Formula One?" The Italian denied that anything
had been finalized, but admitted he was in discussions, and that
there would hopefully be a decision about his future soon. Just
before he got into his car to go out for practice, he looked at
Alex and his team mate's eyes met his. The Italian's gaze was
filled with sympathy and sadness and a plea for truce. He looked
away.

It was here, at Cleveland, the tenth round of the championship,
that everything turned ineluctably to shit. It was almost as if
what he'd been expecting to happen came to pass just because he was
waiting for it. Cleveland: a race unique on the CART circuit
because it took place at an airport, bumpy as fuck; a track that
tested engineers and drivers alike and that seemed to change from
year to year because, having been built on a landfill, the track
surface was always changing. It was one of the most challenging
tracks in the world and Alex had already proven himself here the
year before with a run from way back in the field to take the win,
passing 21 cars in 27 laps without the aid of caution periods or
anything else except for his talent and his balls-out determination
to win. Fuck Zanardi; if Alex could do it, so could he.

But it turned out to be anything other than easy, and the tension
already simmering between the two men came to a head as he saw Alex
go fastest in morning practice and himself struggle to put together
a good enough lap and end up down in fifteenth, 1.7 seconds behind
the Italian. Swallowing his rage he went to the transporter to
compliment his team mate, like he'd always done in the past.

Alex looked up as he entered, pushing aside the time sheets he had
been studying. "Jimmy."

"Pretty good driving out there. Yeah, I'd say you've pretty much
made this place your bitch, huh?"

"Well, I don't know if I'd put it like that, but - " Alex shrugged.

The two men regarded each other warily. He felt fatigue sweep
through him. It grated at him, having to keep up the facade that
everything was okay between them when it was anything but okay.

"So, okay, I guess I'll be seeing you. I came to congratulate you,
say well done. Well, I guess that's it. See ya." //He doesn't owe
you anything, and in the same way you owe him nothing.//

He turned to leave.

"Jimmy, please don't leave. I hate the way things are between us.
Please stay, and talk. Please."

"Well, you know, I guess it's okay for you to sit on your ass and
talk - you're fastest, your car's hooked up, you're the fucking
man, what can I say. I guess I should just fucking give up, anyway.
You're the man, baby. You're the fucking man. My car was a piece of
shit this morning, so I guess I should go and do whatever it is I
have to do to make it faster, Christ knows what. But anyway, well
done. Go get 'em champ - "

"My car. You think it was my car." Alex laughed incredulously, and
he wanted to drive his fist into the Italian's face. "Let's see,
I'm in first, and I guess I drove well enough to put myself in the
top position, but we have the same car. The same car, the same
engine. And there's other drivers out there with the same package,
and they're in second and third. And you're fifteenth. It's nothing
to do with your car. I think that your driving must be to blame
this time."

He looked at Alex in disbelief. "'This time?' Fuck you, you piece
of shit."

Alex shrugged. "Jimmy, I wouldn't be saying this if I knew you
weren't capable of going quicker. Come on, do you really think I'm
that much better than you?"

//Yes. And you fucking know it.//

"Well, I guess that's my cue to leave. It's been nice talking to
you, Alessandro. Thanks for the advice, *pal*", and before Alex
could reply, he left, slamming the door behind him.

//He's right. This morning you drove like you didn't give a shit
and you know what? It's showing. It's becoming obvious to everyone.
You tried to convince yourself that racing was all that was
important to you and you fucking failed. Miserably. It's getting
harder to not care but the closer it gets to the end of the season,
the closer it gets to when Alex leaves for good. Get your mind off
the fact that the only man you've ever really loved won't let you
fuck him and get your mind back on what you're being paid several
million dollars to do.// And he laughed, bitterly and with pain.
//Yeah, we all fucking whore ourselves out. Maybe, Alex, that's
what you thought you were doing every time you let me inside you.//

He hung around in the pits, watching his crew working on his car,
before deciding to go back to the transporter and apologize. There
should at least be civility between them if nothing else; he knew
he was as much to blame for the atmosphere between them as anything
the Italian had done.

Alex was gone when he got back. He slumped against a tool chest,
annoyed and relieved at the same time; annoyed that he had fully
intended to make things right between them and relieved because
he'd been spared another confrontation. He knew he couldn't go out
and face the crowds and his crew again. And then he heard someone
enter the transporter and he looked around thinking it was Alex and
saw it was the Italian's race engineer. He nodded at the older
Englishman. "Alex isn't here. I don't know where he's gone."

"Actually," Mo said, "it was you I wanted to see."

He shrugged. Whatever this was about, he didn't much care.

"I know you struggled a little bit in practice this morning. Alex
asked that I pass on his setup notes to Julian and your crew. He
thinks there might be something there you can use."

"I appreciate it, thanks. But in truth Jules and my guys gave me a
pretty good car this morning. It was me; I guess I was jerking off.
My mind was elsewhere. That's the only excuse I have."

Mo put his head to one side and regarded him closely. "So it would
appear. Alex was pretty agitated when he came to me in the pits
just now. I asked him what was wrong but he didn't want to talk
about it. You know I don't like it when something that happens to
him off-track affects his performance on it. He's been a little bit
distant with me recently, and I think you're part of why that is.
If you don't want to tell me what's going on, that's fine. But I
would like it if you could sort this out so I can get my driver's
mind back on his job."

He looked at Mo, at the pale blue eyes that looked directly at him
and that missed nothing.

"What do you want me to say? Alex knows what he wants; his mind is
his own. If you think there's a problem, you should speak to him
about it." He looked down, busying himself with the cuffs of his
race suit, unzipping it enough to reach in and adjust his tee-
shirt, shrugging uncomfortably as the Nomex stuck to his skin while
he waited for Mo to leave.

He heard the old man clear his throat, felt his eyes on him, and
looked up to meet them as Mo spoke.

"I know you're sleeping with him." And there it was. No accusation,
no judgement, just a statement of something long accepted and
considered as fact.

Yeah, he wanted to reply. I wish. We've hardly touched each other
for a month now. And it's fucking tearing me apart.

"You're good for him," Mo said. "He listens to you, listens to what
you have to say, accepts it when you tell him something he might
not want to hear. Come on. You don't think I'd already worked out
what you are to each other? The way he looks at you, the way you
look at him?"

He drew in a deep breath. "Does Chip know?"

"No. Or if he does, he's said nothing to me. Would it matter if he
knew?"

He looked at the floor. "Alex is leaving," he said. "He wants to go
to Formula One next year."

"Yes, I know. He's kept me informed regarding his negotiations with
Williams. I had a feeling this would happen."

He looked up at Mo but couldn't say anything, tried not to show the
misery he felt inside.

"I'm not sure a move to F1 at this time would be wise," the
Englishman continued. "The Williams team is in a transition period;
it'll be a while before they're the championship winning outfit
they used to be. Alex needs support, encouragement; to feel that
his input as regards the car he's driving will be listened to and
accepted. As I'm sure you're already aware, the Williams team
principals are not known for being particularly supportive when
things go wrong for their drivers."

"I know," he said. "But he doesn't want to talk about it."

"I want you to try. I know he wants to leave because of his family;
he wants to do the best thing by them and you can hardly blame a
man for that. If nothing else, I'd like to feel that I have his
total commitment this season at least, before he goes. I haven't
had as much time as I'd like with him. I can see this is the same
for both of us."

"Yeah, well," he replied, sharply, bitterly, "I don't think
anything I have to say will make any fucking difference to him at
this point. And don't worry; he'll defend his championship. He's a
man on a mission now, haven't you noticed? All he wants is to win
and then fuck off back to Italy. He doesn't give a crap what you,
or I, or anyone else might say about why signing for Williams might
not be such a great idea. He wants to leave. At Rio, he nearly tore
my fucking head off because some backmarker cost him the race. He
thinks CART is full of shit when it comes to enforcing the rules.
He thinks the superspeedways are fucking death traps and hasn't
been shy about saying it. Right now, it's like he's trying to
convince himself that Formula One is the place to be and you, me
and CART can go take a flying leap. I think you're over-estimating
the influence I have with him. And I'm not gonna jeopardize our
relationship by forcing him into something he doesn't want to do,
whether by connivance or emotional blackmail or otherwise. At this
point, I guess I'm counting myself lucky just to have had his
friendship for three years."

Mo's eyes narrowed for a second, and at last he nodded. "Then I
suppose all we can do is make the most of the time we have left
with him."

"Yeah," he said. "I have to go now, I'm sorry. I have to get ready
for qualifying." The anger in him reached boiling point; anger at
the futility of the situation, also bitter amusement at this
conversation with this unlikeliest of allies, with their love and
affection for the Italian the only thing they had in common. That
it should come to this... Jesus. //"I know you're sleeping with
him."// Oh, God!

Mo - the man Alex looked on as a surrogate father, the man the
Italian called "Dad" - stood aside to let him pass, and as he made
to leave spoke one last time and he stopped and felt the words tear
him even more. "Don't resent him for wanting to leave. It's obvious
the way he feels about you; also that it's something that's not
going to change, no matter what might happen in the future. Some
things are strong enough to withstand time and distance. I think
that what you have with him is one of them."

"We'll see," he said. "You can stand being pushed away for only so
long. I'm not a masochist." He left, and as he strode through the
paddock towards the pits the anger and pain seemed intolerable.
Tim, the mechanic who'd surprised him and Zanardi fucking in the
transporter after Long Beach and who'd they'd both fucked in a
moment of reckless, tequila-fueled enjoyment, came towards him, his
face registering hopefulness and concern as well as a fearful
wariness that talking to the Californian at this moment might not
be the wisest course of action.

"Hey, your car's ready. I just wanted to tell you about some of the
adjustments we've made to the front shocks - "

"Get the fuck away from me."

"I just thought - " The kid stopped, unsure, nervous now.

"I told you to leave me alone." He remembered the feel of his cock
inside the kid, the slick rubbing of his hard-on against his team
mate's, enclosed in the same tight space of the boy's body,
together in this as they had been in all things. He remembered Alex
screaming out his name as they had both come inside the boy. Now,
the kid seemed like a cruel reminder of the times they'd shared
that they'd never have again.

"I'm sorry, I - "

He grabbed the kid's shirtfront, swinging him around and slamming
him up hard against the wall of a nearby motorhome. "Jesus Christ,
you won't take no for a fucking answer, will you?" he spat into the
boy's face. "Punk."

Immediately hands were on him, pulling him off the boy. He let
himself be dragged away, seeing the terror in the kid's eyes, and
in his gloating enjoyment at seeing this reaction his cock surged
to semi-hardness.

"Jesus, Jim - what the fuck is wrong with you?" JC, one of his
crew, one of the guys responsible for changing his tires during the
races, gripped his shoulder. He pulled away.

"Nothing. Let go of me. I'm okay."

He carried on towards the pits, aware of people looking at him, of
shocked, puzzled stares. Fuck them. Fuck 'em all. Assholes. Why the
fuck couldn't he be left alone? If the one person he wanted didn't
want him with the same intensity, then what the fuck was the point?
He'd go this alone. And despite Mo's words, he felt his resentment
for Alex bloom into something approaching hate. He'd been played,
used, had his feelings betrayed and thrown aside, shown up as
unimportant, not needed. In the end he was something to be cast
aside because what he thought they'd meant to each other had never
really existed in the first place.

As he strapped on his helmet he could see Alex's car in the pit
stall in front of him, mechanics scurrying around the sleek red
machine that was the twin of his own as both men were prepared for
qualifying. He climbed into his car and waited for someone to strap
him in. "Come on, come on, fuck!" He almost punched the steering
wheel, and as someone scurried over to tighten his harness he
caught sight of Tim on the other side of the pit wall, his face
pinched with bemused fear and hurt. Fuck him. He needed nothing now
but to drive, to get away from all this shit, for there to be
nothing now but him and his race car and the track beneath him. The
crew had barely enough time to step back before he jammed his foot
on the gas and felt the car leap forward, the back end slithering
as the tires fought for grip amidst a huge cloud of smoke. He was
aware of Alex's white-helmeted head turn towards him as he boiled
past the Italian's car and felt the engine judder behind him as he
kept his thumb jammed on the rev-limiter, and then he came to the
pit exit and felt the car leap forward, pressing him back and down
into his seat as he gave the machine its head.

The yowl of the engine at his back mirrored his own rage, and he
added his own scream to the motor's as he headed into the first
turn of the Burke Lakefront Airport track. He blew past a slower
car as he completed his out-lap, missing the other driver by
inches. //Careful. You're out of control. Slow down.// The mood he
was in now, he didn't care if he killed himself or someone else. He
half-hoped Alex would appear out of the pits in front of him. He
felt the bumps of the ever-shifting track surface jarring his
spine, making his teeth snap down on each other and as he clenched
his jaw his muscles ached.

"Jim, the road's clear. You have a clear track ahead of you." The
message from his race engineer crackled over his radio. He ignored
it.

Shifting down from sixth gear to fifth, steering from the right
side of the airport taxiway to the left, lining himself up for the
turn, standing on the brakes hard down to second, feathering the
throttle and then - yes - go - fucking *move* - shooting out of the
corner like a ground-based missile through the sweeping right-hand
section, feeling the car bucking under him - "work with me, fucker;
don't fight me, work with me..." Cursing and encouraging his car,
forcing it to bend to his will - his driving style was so different
from Zanardi's; Alex would work to understand the car, to change it
so that he was one with it, while he, on the other hand, drove
around any niggling problem that might present itself, making it
obey him, entering into a battle of wills and making the car give
in through the sheer force of his anger, making it do as he wanted
- and he heard again the radio come to life with a crackled "You're
fastest through the first section; well done; keep going - "

"Don't fucking talk to me," he snarled. Caressing the brakes
through Turn 3, looking for the big orange cone that marked the
inside of the turn - not there! Fuck, somebody must have knocked it
aside. This was his chance. He took a tighter line through the turn
than he would have been able to had the cone been in its original
place and as he accelerated hard-right through Fourth he could have
sworn he felt his insides displacing as the g-loads pulled at his
body like over-enthusiastic suitors at an orgy. //Tim// - he saw
again the kid's face and felt a stab of regret and then rage as he
remembered Alex's words: "You're too slow. You have the same car as
me, and you're sitting down in 15th. You have the car; it's your
driving that's been at fault today..."

//"I want my kid to grow up speaking Italian."// He drove his car
forward like a jockey flogging a racehorse, punishing it, grinding
his foot on the gas peddle like it was Zanardi's face under his
boot. //Fuck you, you piece of shit.// If he could have made his
car bleed through his abuse of it, he would have. It was just a
tool now, something to be used; a construct of metal and carbon and
oil and methanol to be torn apart in the search for that perfect
lap, the lap he was putting together now; something to be discarded
afterwards after it had served its purpose - //"Alex, is it true
you've already signed a contract to go to Formula One?"// - and he
cried out as the track narrowed suddenly and a concrete wall loomed
ahead of him, coming out of nowhere, and he faced it down,
accelerating harder, his balls drawing up against his body - come
on come on you son of a bitch - already feeling the crunch of
concrete, already tasting his own hot blood flooding his mouth, the
cracking pain of bruised and shattered bone and then at the last
possible minute he braked and shifted down to third, his stomach
feeling as if it had been left behind as he went through the dip at
the apex of the turn and it was over, the moment was past and he
was through, throwing the car hard left-right through the chicane
and back onto the start-finish straight, and the line took an
eternity to come - closer... closer... closer, *now* - and he
flashed over the white line, his foot still planted to the floor
because he wanted to keep going, to never stop. And the radio came
to life and it was as if he heard cheering and screams in the
background and his engineer yelled, "You're first! Pole! You've got
the provisional pole! Jesus! You are half a second quicker than
anyone! That was an incredible lap! How the hell did you - "

And he switched off the radio and as the tears flooded his eyes he
imagined himself forcing his cock into Alex, taking his anger out
on the inert body beneath him, saw Alex's tears of pain and anger
and fear, saw himself driving his fist into the Italian's face
again and again and again, and as the cum from his erect cock
pumped into his race suit, draining the anger from him, he sobbed
out, "Ah god help me, ah fuck Jesus Alex - "

He kept going, staying out on the track while his anger died and
the misery left him to be replaced by nothing but deadness inside.
//It's over. It's finished. You've proved everything and nothing.
Proved that when it counts you can beat anyone, proved that at the
end of the day what the fuck does it matter anyway.//

And with the hot confines of the cockpit already drying out his
semen-soaked Nomex, he pulled back into pitlane and to the Ganassi
pits and the acclamation of Chip and the crew. Alex was there,
waiting for him. He stepped out of the car and felt the Italian's
arms go around him and gripped onto him with sudden desperation and
under the racket of the crowds and the excitement of the pit crew
he whispered in the Italian's ear: "I love you. I love you so
fucking much." And as Alex's grip tightened in return he looked
over his team mate's shoulder and saw Tim's face, pale, scared,
looking at him like the kid was scared to the point of panic, as if
afraid that the force and anger that had been directed against him
would be repeated and that this time there would be no assistance,
no one to pull his attacker off. He met the kid's eyes and it was
as if Tim saw the regret and apology in them because he gave a
small, sad smile and turned away. Whatever was happening between
him and Alex, there was no reason for innocent bystanders to be
caught in the crossfire. It was with regret and an aching sense of
loneliness that he finally let go of his team mate and allowed
himself to be interviewed by reporters.

That night he lay in bed, restless, not sleeping, the sheet pushed
down to his waist in the heat. He lay with one arm over his face,
feeling the adrenaline and excitement thrumming inside him still.
He couldn't relax. He lay there and felt the distance that existed
between himself and his team mate and he felt like screaming. No.
Fucking bury it. Bury the feelings down like he always had done.
His breathing grew heavier and he remembered the first time he'd
met Alex, the first time he'd been introduced to him. From then on,
after the first time he'd seen that hard, lean body hidden but
hinted at under jeans and tee-shirt, those beautiful gray eyes,
that smile that had disarmed him so completely, that warmth, that
gregarious friendliness because Alex wanted everyone to like him,
wanted to be loved with an almost disarming neediness but at the
same time with a cautious reserve that made that friendliness all
the sweeter; yeah, the first time he'd brought himself to orgasm
with memories of that meeting and his own saliva-slick hand, he
knew he could never tell Alex how he felt. And the Italian's wife:
blond, beautiful, seven years older than Alex; a gentle, kind
woman, supportive of her husband and someone who'd gone through
much with him during the fallow years between the end of Alex's
ill-fated stint with the Lotus Formula One team and his coming to
America; he knew he could not, and should not, intrude on this, but
it had been difficult, and then when the Italian had let the last
vestiges of his guard down and they'd fucked for the first time it
was almost like he didn't deserve this happiness - //"No son of
mine is gonna grow up to be a fucking fag"//, memories of pain and
fear, a fist driving into his face - this reward for years of
working alongside a man who he'd wanted so much but to whom he
could say nothing. And now Daniela was pregnant, and the man he
loved so deeply, so intensely, would be leaving. And he laughed
through his tears, through his anger and his bitterness. Yeah, well
sometimes we can't always get what we want, and most of the time we
don't deserve it anyway.

And he heard footsteps in the hall outside and heard them come to
his door and then there was a pause and silence and then the sound
of knocking. He lay still, willing whoever it was to go away, and
he heard the silence stretch into eternity and then the footsteps
went away and there was silence again and then they returned, and
the knocking came again, louder, more sure this time.

He slid off the bed, wrapping the sheet loosely around his hips. He
opened the door and it was Alex.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Let me come in. We have to talk." The Italian looked like hell.
His hair was unruly, his clothes disheveled, his eyes red from what
he could only presume was lack of sleep. //Yeah, well now he knows
how I feel//, and he felt a sense of savage satisfaction. "Please.
I'm asking you. I want to talk. Please let me come in."

He stood aside, letting Alex enter. He let the sheet drop, tossing
it back onto the bed. "Then speak. I thought you made it pretty
clear what you wanted in Rio. And that I wasn't a part of that.
That's fine. But we have a busy weekend ahead of us and I need to
get some sleep. Whatever you have to say, please make it quick."

"Jimmy, I don't know what I've done - "

And he was immediately stirred to rage. "You fucking asshole," he
said, slowly, steadily, almost without emotion. "You know you're
the only one who can't see it."

Alex moved into the lamplight, casting a quick glance over the
rumpled bed, the tossed sheet. When he looked up at his team mate
his glance was filled with fear and regret and uncertainty. The
thought that Alex was suffering as much as he was crossed his mind
briefly, then vanished.

The Italian shut his eyes briefly, and then spoke. "I have to do
this, Jimmy. I love you so much but I have to do this."

"And if the Williams thing turns to shit, what then? Are you gonna
come back here, your tail between your legs, deciding that this is
an okay place to be after all, that having your team mate fuck your
ass once in a while is an acceptable price to pay for winning races
and a championship?"

"You know it's not like that."

"No? Well, what the fuck is it like? Huh? Hate the way you make me
feel, Alex. Hate the way that what we've been to each other all
these years means fuck all and even though you're doing this for
your family it feels like you're running away - running away from
CART, running away from me."

"Don't do this."

Alex moved closer to him and put his hand on his arm. He let the
Italian touch him as Alex continued talking.

"Mo told me he talked to you."

"Yeah. I felt like I'd just had a 'meet the in-laws' moment. He
knows about us, did you know that?"

Alex sat down on the edge of the bed. "Oh, Christ."

"Yeah, at first that was my reaction. Which is kinda funny, when
you think about it. Now that we're no longer fucking, it seems like
everyone thinks we are."

"And Chip - does he - ?"

He barked with laughter, seeing the Italian wince and enjoying the
look of pain that flashed across his team mate's face. "Oh,
probably. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if he's jealous. The way
he touches you, sometimes, after each race? Yeah, you don't want me
now, and who's to say I wasn't the only one, all these years?
What's wrong, Alessandro, get tired of Chip feeling you up all
those evenings back at the shop - 'come on, baby, suck my cock,
just one more time; one more time for daddy' ... Or is it Mo? I
know you love him like a father - and who knows, maybe it's more
than that. Who's my rival, Alex, huh? Who is it I've been in
competition with all this time for the right to fuck your ass? Or
maybe we all just have to wait our turn; is that the way it goes?"

And Alex looked up at him swiftly and his eyes were filled with
tears of anger and then the Italian went for him.

It was what he'd been waiting for, what he'd wanted. If they
couldn't fuck, then they'd fight. That was okay with him. He let
Alex swing for him and felt the air displace itself between the
Italian's fist and his face before he felt the impact of Alex's
knuckles on his cheekbone. He grabbed the Italian, pulling him down
with him and trying to use the leverage of his body to get Alex
under him. As they crashed heavily onto the floor the lamp on the
nightstand toppled over and they were in darkness. He felt Alex's
hot breath on his face as the Italian yelped frantically: "Not
going to let you do this - "

Agony throbbed behind his cheekbone like a drumbeat as he got
Alex's wrists into his hand and the air whooshed out of him as the
Italian brought his knee up solidly into his stomach and he grabbed
Alex by the hair and slammed his head down once, hard, against the
floor and then Alex was pushing him off and rolling on top of him
and he felt the weight of the Italian's body and then Alex was
still, and the fight went out of him, and he felt Alex's fingers
touch his cheek gently in the darkness, on the place where he'd hit
him, and he snarled with pain and rolled Alex over again so that he
was on top. Despite the pain in his face and the pounding of his
heart he realized he'd developed an erection, and he ground it
viciously against his team mate's denimed crotch. "Is this what you
want, Alex?" he rasped, his voice breaking. "Is this the way you
like it, you guinea fuck?"

He tore at the buttons of Alex's jeans as his team mate lay frozen
beneath him. "Wanna be in you - "

"Jimmy - " and he heard the tears in the Italian's voice and put
his mouth on his team mate's to quieten him.

"Sssh. Sssh. It's okay."

He tugged the belt from Alex's jeans and used it to roughly tie the
Italian's wrists. He pulled Alex's jeans down and settled himself
between his team mate's legs.

"Jimmy - I'm so sorry. I didn't want to hurt you I never wanted to
hurt you - "

"I know, champ. It's okay. S'okay now. Don't speak."

He couldn't make the shaking go away as he put his arms around his
team mate, lying on top of him, reaching down to slide the hard
shaft of his prick down into the Italian's cleft and across his
hole. "I love you. I love you but you can't fucking see that. You
don't give a shit about how this affects us. I know I'm not gonna
change how I feel because you're leaving but if I can't have you
with me it doesn't fucking matter, does it?"

He knew he was raving and he heard Alex's hitching, sobbing breaths
but he carried on anyway. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. He
pushed the Italian's legs wider apart and lined the head of his
cock against his team mate's tightly clenched hole. "You wanna be
treated like a whore, is that what you want? Wanna get fucked like
a whore, you shit?"

And he felt Alex go suddenly still underneath him. He spat into his
hand and rubbed his saliva into his team mate's hole, feeling it
loosen up against him as he stroked and massaged. He got a finger
inside and hooked it up looking for the bump of Zanardi's prostate.
Alex opened his legs a little wider and desperate now, he pushed
his cock in alongside his finger, slamming the heel of his free
hand over Alex's mouth as the Italian felt the double penetration
and cried out in anger.

He slowly removed his finger and pushed his cock all the way in,
the friction of his team mate's tight flesh around the shaft of his
aching prick like a shot of pure fucking ecstasy to the brainstem.
It was always this, the initial moment of entry into Alex's body
that he would remember when they were between races and he was in
Vegas and alone, horny, missing his team mate but knowing he'd see
him soon, and it was these moments of solitude jacking off to the
memories of their sex together that had made the anticipation of
seeing him again all the sweeter, and he laughed with bitterness at
the knowledge that after season's end he wouldn't even have this.
It was with lust and despair now that he reached down in the
darkness to find Alex's cock hard and throbbing against his
fingers.

"Tell me you want me to hurt you."

Alex started to struggle again then, but he easily swatted the
bound hands away as they pushed at him. He stroked the side of
Alex's face and felt him turn his head and touch his palm with his
mouth as if in supplication. The Italian's lips were parted and he
felt Alex's breath and took two of his fingers and pushed them deep
inside, stroking the Italian's tongue, rubbing his gums and the
edges of his teeth, pushing further to touch the hot slickness of
the back of his throat, raping his team mate's mouth at the same
time as he began slowly to move his cock inside his ass.

"Love that mouth. Why have you never sucked my cock?"

Alex moaned once and he felt his team mate's lips tighten around
his fingers as he began to suck. He pushed his fingers in and out
slowly, fucking the Italian's mouth.

"Yeah, the reason you've never sucked me is because it would make
you like me. A fucking faggot. Sucking another man's prick as the
ultimate act of submission. And yet here you are, in my room, my
cock in your ass to the hilt while you spread your legs wider for
me. Do you think, if you stayed, you could bring yourself to learn
to take my cum in your mouth, baby? Do you think you'd ever learn
to like it?"

He heard Alex breath in sharply through his nose and felt the
wetness of tears on his hand.

"Good whores know how to suck cock as well as take it up the ass.
And since you're gonna be servicing the entire team..."

Alex wrenched his head away. "Jimmy, don't say these things I love
you please listen to me I love you - "

"Yeah, but I don't wanna share you any more. If you don't love me
enough to stay then I guess you never really loved me that much
from the beginning. You made a choice and I guess I come pretty low
on your list of priorities. What the fuck was I to you, anyway?" -
he yelled, grabbing a handful of Alex's hair to pull his head up -
"a fuck substitute? Someone to get your rocks off with when you
couldn't fuck your wife? Well, you know, you were more than that to
me."

"Get off me." Alex's voice, cold, trembling, full of hurt. "Untie
me and then get the hell off me." The Italian bucked frantically
with his hips and he held Alex's thighs down until the Italian's
knees almost touched the floor and releasing them he dug his hands
under the hard muscle of his ass to lift his hips up and pull him
closer to him, forcing his cock in deeper. He roughly pushed Alex's
tee-shirt up with one hand until it was bunched under his armpits;
he ran his tongue across the flat of a tensed pectoral and found
the nipple, ridged with scar tissue from Rio where he'd hurt the
Italian at Alex's urging and tasted his blood so long ago.

"Has Daniela seen this, huh? Does she know I take you up the ass,
baby?"

"Oh god, please, stop this..."

"Traitor. Whore. Yeah, I wanna watch other men fuck you," he
whispered, moving now with steady, long strokes, pulling out almost
completely before sliding back in again, slowly, controlling the
power of his hips, controlling his anger, aware of the contrast of
the cooler air of the room on his erection to the moist heat of the
Italian's ass as he slid back inside him to the hilt.

"Yeah, I wanna watch them, I wanna watch the whole fucking team
line up and take turns with you and know that I'm the one who owns
you, I'm the one who knows how to make you hard, to make you come,
because I know your body better than them, better than anyone. I
wanna see them fuck you and maybe hurt you a little, make you cry
for me, make you wish it was my cock inside you, my mouth on you."

Alex's breathing quickened almost imperceptibly and the Italian was
moving with him now, not fighting him.

"Yeah, you see? You need this as much as I do. You try to kid
yourself you're going back to a normal life, be the family man, the
dutiful husband, but it won't be enough, because you're just like
me, fucker, just like me. Only you won't fucking admit it. Yeah,
the way I feel about you right now, I wanna crucify you. I wanna
nail you to the fucking wall. I wanna put my fist inside you and
tear your fucking heart out from the inside. I wanna tear you
apart, hear you scream like you mean it."

"More - "

"I wanna see you tied down and spread open for all-comers, watch
them rape you, use you. Would you like that, huh? My cock not
enough for you? Wanna feel someone else's prick slam into your ass,
another man's cock slide down your throat? Would you swallow his
cum, let him hurt you, beg for it like the dirty piece of shit you
are?"

"Hurt me Jimmy - "

"See what you do to me? Now, when you're not with me, thinking
about you gets me so fucking hard, it gets so bad sometimes I wanna
go out and find someone, make them take the fucking I wanna give
you, fuck you out of my system because sometimes I hate the way you
make me want you, hate the fact that after this season you'll be in
Italy fucking your wife and I'll be here alone, waking up without
you, making me want to put my fist through a fucking wall every
time I think about you, because you mean everything to me, and when
we're together, in company or at the track, I wanna touch you and
can't and it drives me fucking crazy, it drives me crazy so I can't
think straight, and I wanna hurt you sometimes, make you feel what
I'm feeling, oh Jesus, Alex..."

He was fucking the Italian hard now, slamming his hips against him,
hearing the slap of skin on skin as he pounded into Alex so
violently as to push him across the floor, heard Alex start to gasp
and give a choking sob, and the Italian was crying openly now, and
as he felt Alex move with him in the darkness he felt a surge of
anger rush through him like a presage of orgasm and crying out with
rage he pulled out and spent himself over the Italian's body,
spattering the moist hot skin with a never ending stream of thick,
sticky cum and he held Alex down with one hand pressed into his
semen-smeared stomach and jacked him off roughly, viciously, and
Alex reached down with his bound hands and held onto his wrist as a
last desperate attempt to stay connected with him and the sound
Alex made when he came was a cry of such awful despair he didn't
think he could stand it.

He lay beside Alex in the darkness, breathing hard, no dissipation
to the anger and misery inside him. He reached over and quickly,
efficiently, with one hand undid the belt around Alex's wrists and
tossed it aside. He heard the Italian's sobs as Alex curled his
body away from him.

"Jimmy, I have to do what's best for everyone, please won't you
understand this."

He was silent for a long time before he replied. His cock was
tender and sore and he could smell his cum; his body ached all over
and the shivering wouldn't stop. "Please leave."

He heard Alex get up slowly, almost painfully, heard the rustle of
clothing being fumblingly rearranged and fastened. "If you ever
touch me again - " the Italian's voice shook, strained from crying
- "if you ever put your hands on me, I will kill you, do you
understand me? What we had is finished. I am doing this because
it's the right thing. I'm not going to let you hurt me, or make me
feel like I am making the wrong decision. I'll be flying to England
next week to visit the Williams team headquarters. They want to
show me around, let me see the factory and meet the team members. I
expect I'll make my decision then.

"Good luck next year, Jimmy. I hope you have a successful season,"
the Italian said bitterly. "And who knows, maybe you can teach your
new team mate to suck your cock the way you like it."

For a long time after Alex left, he did not move. A knock came at
the door and an unfamiliar voice said loudly: "Hey, is everything
okay in there? I heard a crash, noises. What the fuck is going on
in there?"

The effort to speak was almost too much. "Nothing. I'm okay. It was
just an accident."

"Yeah, well keep the noise down, buddy. Some of us are trying to
get some sleep."

He waited until whoever it was had gone and then got slowly to his
feet. In the bathroom he splashed his face with cold water and
looked at himself in the mirror. A red knot was forming on his
cheekbone from where Alex had hit him; he soaked a towel and held
it against his face: there would be a bruise, but he knew the
Italian had not hit him with his full strength. He wished he had
done. He remembered Alex's parting words and felt his own tears
come, and wrapping his hand in the towel he drove his fist into the
mirror, breaking it into a thousand silvered fragments.

***

Sitting in the pits for almost all of Saturday's final qualifying
session, cocooned in the cockpit, his race suit sticking to his
thighs in the sweltering heat, waiting for someone to beat his
time. They all went out, one after the other, threw everything they
could into taking pole position away from him, but none of them
could match the time he'd set the day before, the day he'd gone out
in anger and grief and taken his car and himself to a limit he'd
never reached before, and now that the anger was gone, perhaps
never would again. Team members had looked quizzically at his
bruised cheekbone but had not mentioned it; Alex had not looked at
him at all, stepping aside as he came out of the transporter to let
him in, turning his face away.

He felt in limbo; the emotional wound Alex had dealt him, the
damage he himself had inflicted on both of them, was still there,
still deep, still hurting, but a scab was forming over it now, and
he wore the scar like a badge, a medal. For the rest of the year he
would go his own way; speak to no one unless absolutely necessary,
do his job and at the end of the day go home, try not to think,
take pride in his aloneness and the fact he needed no one.

"I wanna go out." He raised his voice and his engineer bent down
beside him, Julian's face earnest behind wire rimmed glasses, face
beaded with sweat in the punishing heat. "I wanna go out, put a
couple of laps in. Just to be sure."

They started up his engine and let him go. His laps did not have
the frantic urgency of the day before; they were quick, workman-
like, but nowhere near the blistering time he'd set in Friday's
session. He came in after two laps, knowing he'd needed only an
excuse to drive, to be alone and moving.

What he'd done the day before turned out to be enough. As the
session ended and he was declared official polesitter his crew
clustered around him to congratulate him. He unbuckled his helmet,
ran a hand through his sweat-mussed hair and took the baseball cap
handed to him, preparing for the onslaught of reporters.

"Well done. That was an incredible qualifying run yesterday; I
didn't think anyone would beat it." The man at his elbow: dapper,
tanned, familiar. It took him a second to recognize him: Adrian
Reynard, the man who supplied most of the field with the chassis
which bore his name, a millionaire many times over, one of the most
influential men in motor racing. "Though you did the right thing
going out. Just to be sure, right?"

He shook the man's hand, felt it grip his in a tight, friendly
grasp. He shrugged and smiled back. "Yeah, I guess. Just to be
sure."

"I suppose you've heard that I'm thinking of expanding my
interests, branching out, if you will. As you probably know I'm
currently involved in setting up a Formula One team for next year
with backing from British American Tobacco. Jacques Villeneuve is
already involved. We are, however, looking for a second driver.
Would you be interested?"

He looked over at Alex's pit and saw the Italian standing, his back
to him, talking to reporters. And he started laughing, and he
couldn't stop, and he knew the man looking at him didn't understand
why he was laughing and why the hell should he.

"Am I to take it, from your reaction, that my proposal interests
you?"

And as reporters crowded around them, trying to push their
microphones towards him, he felt something indescribable leap
inside him, something like hope, and he gave his answer, never
taking his eyes from the red-clad figure of his team mate over in
the other pit. "Yes," he gasped. "Oh, yes."


P A R T  2

Those hands: big fucking workman's hand, hard, big-knuckled, thick
fingered, one of the fingers truncated at the tip from an early go-
karting accident in which the hand had gotten caught in the chain
during an adjustment of the fuel; nails bitten down to nothing,
scarred, skin tanned and hardened on the palms from blisters
incurred from holding the steering wheel of a race car too tightly
lap after lap - it is these hands he imagines on him now as he
jacks his cock, imagines these hands sliding over his skin, his
chest, gripping his hips, sliding over his nipples and down his
thighs; he spits once again into his hand and coats his palm and
slides it down his hard, throbbing shaft, rubbing the ridges of his
cock head with his thumb, reaching down with the other hand to cup
and squeeze his balls - he clenches once, tightly, feeling pain
shoot up through his groin and he cries out as he imagines those
slate-gray eyes looking into his, imagines Alex straddling him and
lowering himself down onto him; he arches his back and slides his
hand down his cock slowly, hard as in his mind's eye his team
mate's flesh opens around him and sucks him in, causing him to arch
up against Alex's imagined weight, to push himself in deeper, to
burrow inside his team mate's lubed wet heat. "Ah, fuck - " He
imagines Alex rocking now, riding him in the semi-darkness, the
supple fluidity of the muscled body, the slim hips, the bunching of
the abdominals, the glint of sweat on the dark chest hair, hard,
erect nipples...

His fist moves faster now. The warmth of the sheet sliding against
him becomes Zanardi's skin. The cadence of his harsh breathing
becomes an echo of his team mate's. The shadows around him are
shadows cast by Alex's body, taut like a drawn bow-string. He turns
his head to the side, gasping; his chest is damp with sweat and he
takes a saliva-slick finger and works it roughly into the burning,
accepting readiness of his asshole.

His orgasm when he comes is joyless; a grim physiological response
to a fantasy that serves as scant comfort and no substitute for a
reality he no longer has. Semen spatters in ribbons onto his
shoulder and then his chest and stomach and he cries Alex's name.

All he has are memories. And come season's end, when Alex leaves,
they are all he will ever have.

He curls into a ball, gingerly, slowly, like a wounded animal, and
his fists clutch the sheets.

***

He sat looking at the man sitting across the table from him in the
plush, corporate blandness of the Reynard motorhome and tried to
make sense out of the words that had just come from his mouth. The
figure he'd just heard the man utter was insane, not real. This was
a joke, wasn't it? Sure, he'd earned some big sums in CART; the
salary Chip paid him wasn't bad and he'd won the odd million at the
superspeedway races, but the amount of money he was being offered
now was beyond anything he'd ever imagined. No one had ever wanted
to pay him that much for anything. //So this is Formula One,// he
thought with wry amazement.

"Jimmy?"

"Uh, yeah. Well, you know." He shook his head, laughed nervously.
"Jeez. I don't know, I mean... Wow."

"Oh, you don't have to make a decision now. But I'd certainly like
you to think about it."

Craig Pollock: ex skiing instructor, Adrian Reynard's partner in
this new venture, manager of 1995 CART and Indy 500 champion
Jacques Villeneuve. Jacques had gone to Formula One from CART in
1996 and had damn near won the championship on his first try, and
had succeeded in clinching it on his second. He knew Jacques;
they'd been friends during Jacques' stint in Atlantics and their
friendship had continued in CART; they'd fucked a couple of times -
recreational, no-strings sex between buddies - but it had turned
into nothing serious. They still kept in touch occasionally, but
not so often any more now that Jacques had moved on to bigger
things. He wondered what it would be like to be team mates with
him. He wondered if there would be any tension once Jacques
discovered how he felt about Zanardi. Probably not, but even so it
didn't matter. He'd be near Alex, in the same paddock as him,
fighting against him on the same track, and that was all that
mattered.

He forced himself back down to earth, and his business instincts
took over.

"One question, Mr. Pollock. Why me?"

Pollock smiled as if he'd been expecting this query, but the blue
eyes were laser-like, calculating. Ever since Adrian Reynard had
approached him a week ago as he'd got out of the car in qualifying
at Cleveland it was something he'd wondered. There were other
drivers who were available and whose contracts would be up at the
end of the season; he knew too that his name would probably be
greeted with amazement by Formula One pundits as not being the most
obvious choice, for a variety of reasons.

"Well, first and foremost, you're a damn good driver; fast, but
careful. You're experienced, you bring the car home and you drive
with your head more than your balls."

"Some people would say that's a bad thing."

Pollock laughed. "No. You've won a championship; your ability
speaks for itself. Adrian and I are of the opinion you're
underrated by a lot of people. You could bring a lot to this team.
And Jacques also likes the possibility of having you as a team
mate."

"Oh?" A sliver of doubt surfaced through his enthusiasm. Jacques
was as competitive as they come and a past master at demoralizing
his team mates; he knew he would not have asked for him if he
didn't think he could beat him. And he remembered too a phone call
he'd had from Jacques half-way through the French-Canadian's first
F1 season: //"You'd hate the bullshit here. Don't ever come to
Formula One; I'm telling you, you'd hate it."//

"Tell me: if Jacques did come on board, and I were to accept your
offer, would I be guaranteed as much support, equal equipment and
testing time?"

Pollock shrugged, and his smile became almost ingratiatingly
reassuring. "Of course. There would be no question of that. We'll
be running two cars, not just one; our sponsors will be putting a
lot of money into this, and they'll be expecting results. So yes,
it will be obviously in the team's best interests to afford
ourselves as big a chance of bringing home the points as possible.
I'm sure you would be able to help us in this regard."

He nodded.

"Anyway, think about it, and hopefully we can speak again soon."
Pollock extended his hand and he shook it and stood up. "You have
my card, so if you have any questions, or want to speak to me for
any reason, give me a call. And Jacques sends his regards, by the
way."

"Thanks." As always, he wondered about the relationship Jacques had
with this man. They were certainly close; he'd been Jacques' former
school teacher and manager since his early days and Jacques had
virtually lived with him and his family during his years in CART.
Whatever the exact nature of their relationship, Jacques never
talked about it.

"I understand your team mate, Zanardi, is also interested in moving
- or should I say returning - to Formula One. And with Jacques as
your team mate you certainly wouldn't be without friends. It would
ease the transition."

It was his turn to shrug. "I guess. Wouldn't stop me trying to beat
them, though."

"Indeed. That was a great performance you put on in Cleveland last
weekend, by the way. Adrian told me about it; he was most
impressed. Pity about the race, though - faulty gearbox was it?"

"Yeah, I had to use the clutch to shift, but I got used to it."

"Well, eighth isn't bad, considering. Another win for your team
mate. He's certainly on a roll at the moment, isn't he?"

"Yup, I guess you could say that." //Roll? He's burning the
freakin' village.//

"Well, good luck for this weekend. I'll be watching you."

"Thanks. I'll try not to make it too exciting." Pollock laughed,
they shook hands once more, and he took his leave.

He walked slowly back to the Ganassi transporters through the melee
of the Toronto paddock. His mind flickered briefly back to that
morning when he'd imagined Alex with him and had come crying out
his name, and he pushed the memory away quickly. After what had
happened at Cleveland, even if he went to Formula One with Alex,
would that fix things between them? No. Perhaps there was nothing
left of their relationship to save. He remembered Alex's fist
coming towards him, the pain of his bruised cheekbone, the
tightness of Alex's body as he'd whispered obscenities into the
Italian's ear as they'd fucked; Alex's tears and entreaties and the
way it felt like something inside him was breaking when the Italian
had told him that what they'd had between them was over. He'd flown
back to Vegas for the couple of days respite between Cleveland and
Toronto; during this part of the season it seemed like he always
got home just long enough to unpack his suitcase before he had to
pack it again in preparation for leaving. The way he felt right
now, that suited him fine. So long as he was moving, he didn't have
time to think.

But Formula One, Jesus! He remembered as a kid, Indy had always
been the shining grail for him. Formula One had never entered his
plans, not like it did for Jacques; it was never something he felt
he had to aim towards. Where he was now, having won a
championship... the only thing missing was an Indy 500 win and that
was it for him. And then Alex had come along, an ex-Formula One
driver trying to revive his career, and now everything, the way he
had seen his life going, was changing, because of how he felt for
his team mate. Perhaps, if he went to Formula One, things could be
the way they were between them. //Yeah, and he'll still be married,
still be sharing his bed with someone else, still be someone else's
and not yours.// Could he go through this torture, seeing Alex
every race weekend, being near him but knowing that everything had
changed and that they could never repeat what they had in CART? For
the first time in his life, the future was unclear to him. He
didn't know what to do. At this point, there were two paths he
could take: stay in CART, watch his team mate leave, but stay in
America, the country he called home, stay in the series in which
he'd proven himself. Or he could leave; leave and go to F1 in what
would essentially be a giant leap into the unknown. The money Craig
Pollock had offered him was not to be sneezed at, but money didn't
mean that much to him. And as an American in F1 the pressure on him
would be enormous; the European motorsport cognoscenti would be
rooting for him to fail so they could trumpet the superiority of
their own. Would all this bring him as much happiness as he had
found in his current career, in the life he had made for himself?
And he felt the bitterness rise up in him like bile. Happiness.
Right. Whatever happened in F1, would it make him feel any the fuck
worse than he did now?

He went into the transporter to change into his race suit for
practice. Alex stood with his back to him, pulling a Nomex tee-
shirt on over his head, shrugging his race suit up onto his
shoulders and doing up the zip. The Italian turned, saw him, and
turned back to his locker.

They stood beside each other while Alex searched for his gloves and
balaclava and he began to change out of his street clothes. The
silence stretched between them. Alex closed his locker and was
about to go when he paused, his hand still on the locker door. "Are
you okay?" Alex's voice was quiet; the Italian would not raise his
eyes to look at him.

He shrugged and tried to speak and then everything he had been
trying to put aside, Alex's rejection of him, doubts over his own
future, came crashing down and he felt the tears come and furiously
bit them back. "Yeah, well," he forced out. "Gettin' by. What the
fuck can you do, huh?"

Alex shot him a quick glance and seemed about to speak, then bit
his lip and looked down.

"So, how did the trip to England go?" He tried to keep his tone
nonchalant, as if he didn't care, but inside him his heart was
hammering.

Alex paused. "I have signed a Letter of Intent with the Williams
team. They seem pretty keen for me to drive for them, and I was
impressed by what I saw. There are a few details to be worked out,
and after that I guess I will probably sign the contract to be
their driver for next season."

"Well, I guess that's it, then."

"Jimmy, I'm sorry." Alex looked at the floor.

"No. No, you're not. Don't fucking patronize me; don't give me your
bullshit. What the fuck do you have to be sorry for? Sorry that you
didn't end it earlier? Sorry that you ever let me fall in love with
you in the first place? Jesus." As he pulled on his race suit his
hands were shaking.

"The things we said to each other - "

"Were things that I guess had to be said. It's finished. You're
right. It's better this way."

"No." Alex looked up at him swiftly, and reached out to grab his
wrist. "No. I didn't - I don't want things to be over between us, I
don't want it to end this way... my god, you think my feelings for
you were not real, were something I was using against you? You are
the only person in my life who I have ever... " - he shook his head
- "...the things we have shared... and you think this is easy for
me, to make these decisions? No. No. I am trying to do what is best
for my family and Jimmy, they must come first, you must understand
this. But to know I will be losing you, it hurts so much and I wish
we could still be together and these three years with you have been
the best of my life and the things you said hurt so much - "

He pulled Alex to him and stopped the frantic flow of words with
his mouth, and putting up his hands he felt the wetness of the
tears on Alex's cheeks. "What the fuck have I done?" he whispered.
"What the fuck is happening to us?"

"I don't know I don't know - "

"Oh, Jesus." He wrapped his arms around Alex and held him close.
"Fuck, I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Alex drew back, sweeping his hand quickly over his eyes. "Jimmy, I
don't want you to be angry with me for leaving."

"Jesus, Alex."

The Italian touched his wrist again. "I want to speak with you
later, I want to see you... Can we be together later?"

"I don't know; there are a couple of interviews I have to do after
qualifying and we both have sponsor commitments... I have a
motorhome with me this weekend, I guess you know; when the track's
quiet I guess you could come on by, or I could drop by your hotel
room."

Alex wiped away the last of his tears, laughing a little. "I am
growing to hate hotel rooms."

"Me too." He took hold of Alex's hand as if to remove it from his
arm, but ended it up holding it for a little. "Me too. Then come by
the motorhome later. It doesn't matter how late."

"Okay."

And as Alex made to go he said: "Alex."

The Italian turned.

"Congratulations on the Williams deal." And Alex gave him a quick
regretful smile, and then was gone.

***

The track emptied out quickly after the qualifying session until
the drivers, crew and team personnel were the only people left in
the normally crowd-filled paddock. Whisked away by the team's PR
manager he endured the usual round of interrogations by the media
and a photo session that seemed to go on forever. He bullshitted
with his crew for a little, consulted with Julian and the engineers
about setup, and confident they had a good car for the next day's
race, he took his leave of them, changed, and headed back to his
motorhome. A cursory inspection of the pits had shown Alex wasn't
around; perhaps he'd gone back to the hotel already.

He thought of getting something to eat but wasn't hungry. As he
walked through the almost deserted paddock a burst of male laughter
from the big motorhome several spaces over reached him; the
Brazilian contingent of the field most likely. He smiled. They were
good kids: Tony, his buddy from Lights Cristiano, little, emotional
Helio with his irrepressible laughter and who he'd caught shyly
checking him out one time during the drivers introductions just
before the race. Two figures walked ahead of him through the
gathering dusk; the tall, lanky Canadian threw his arm around his
Scottish friend's shoulders. Greg and Dario, off somewhere
together, their easy enjoyment of each other's company a scourge to
the loneliness he felt inside him.

Inside the motorhome he stripped off his tee-shirt, got a bottle of
beer from out of the fridge. He tried not to count the minutes,
tried to prepare himself mentally for the race next day and not
think of Alex. But all he could see was the misery on Alex's face,
the fear that what they had between them was falling apart and that
perhaps it didn't have to be that way, that maybe something could
be salvaged from the wreckage before the CART season finale in
October and Alex got on a plane for Italy, never to come back. He
lay back on the still-unmade foldout bed and supported the beer
bottle on the muscles of his stomach, feeling it make cold wet
circles against his skin. He dug his hand down into his jeans, felt
his cock twitch against his fingers. The memories of that morning's
misery-filled jack-off session returned and he withdrew his hand.
Laughter from outside reached him again.

A tap at the door, hesitant, then again, firmer. "Yeah." He didn't
open his eyes; felt the bed dip as someone sat down beside him. He
looked up and met Alex's gaze. "I didn't think you'd come."

"Well, here I am," the Italian replied softly. He noticed that
while Alex sat beside him he was careful to keep distance between
them.

"I wouldn't have blamed you if you hadn't."

"Don't say that."

"By the way; I have something to tell you."

Alex shifted himself a little uncomfortably and made a half-hearted
attempt at humor. "Am I going to like this?"

"I guess that depends. Y'see, I don't know if you know this, but
Craig Pollock and Adrian Reynard are setting up a Formula One team,
and they're looking for another driver."

Alex nodded. "I know," he said, and his voice was suddenly somber,
"I've been approached by them about it."

"Well," he pulled himself up to a sitting position. "Isn't that
interesting. I assume you said no."

The Italian shrugged. "It's a new team; they might certainly get
success in a couple of years, but I have my doubts about some of
the personnel and how ready they are for such a big undertaking."

"Well, buddy, it looks like I'm gettin' your cast-offs, because
they've offered me the seat."

An unreadable expression passed over the Italian's face, and Alex
got up off the bed and started pacing.

"Yeah, it is quite ironic when you think about it. Me and Formula
One, who'd have thought it? And coming now. You tell me you're
leaving, I go fucking nuts, eventually start getting used to the
idea that you'll soon be gone, and then something comes along and
rips that wound open all over again. Man, I must really have put a
spanner in the karmic wheel somewhere along the line, because,
y'know, this is fucking tearing me apart and any decision I make
now one way or the other is not necessarily gonna make things any
better, is it?"

He watched Alex as the Italian stood with his back to him; the slim
hardness of his body under jeans and white shirt, the slender hips,
that tight-muscled, perfect ass. If he could turn back time now it
would be to when he'd first met the Italian and he knew if he could
he'd tell Alex much sooner about the way he felt because then they
might have had more time, but time, as on the track, was never a
gift given freely; it had to be fought for, struggled for,
something that was only given at the cost of sweat, blood, desire
and adrenaline; all the things that had made his short relationship
with Alex so sweet, and now, so damned painful.

Alex turned to him suddenly. "Come with me. Come with me to Formula
One. Please."

"Alex." He chose his words carefully. "I thought that this was for
the best; I thought this was ultimately what you wanted." And he
saw Alex's face crease again in anger.

"To be apart from you? No. But now it is beginning to sound like
you want me to leave."

He laughed, took another swallow from the beer bottle. "You wanna
know what I did this morning, you guinea son of a bitch? I lay
here, whacking off, imagining you were with me. I thought about
your hands on me, your asshole clenching round my cock, your body
against me. After I came I felt like killing someone. You,
probably. Yeah, I'm looking forward to a whole fucking season of
this, let me tell you. Or probably more than that - I'm hearing now
it's a three year deal you're trying to swing with Williams?
Probably for the best. Put all this well behind you, huh?"

"Okay," Alex said angrily. "Okay." He unbuttoned his shirt and
pulled it off, began to unbuckle his belt.

"What the hell are you doing?" He felt weariness sweep through him.

"Do you want to fuck, Jimmy?" The Italian's voice was filled with
bitterness. "Yes, let's fuck. Maybe this will make it better. Or at
the very least it will give you something to remember after I'm
gone."

In one quick movement he was on his feet and he back-handed Alex
swiftly across the face. "You fucking whore - "

And Alex was staggering backwards, laughing through his tears. "Is
this the best you can do, Jimmy? You know, I hardly even felt it."

And he shoved his mouth on Alex's and felt the Italian's tongue
meet his, frantically, and he pulled Alex down onto the bed,
struggling with the buttons of his own jeans as he held Alex down
with one hand tangled in his hair and ran his tongue across the
salt-tasting skin of his team mate's chest, biting the nipples,
teasing the scar tissue of the damaged areola with his tongue as
Alex humped up against him.

"Love this scar," he whispered. "My mark on you; means you're mine
now, no one else's."

"I wanna be yours, Jimmy, " Alex cried out. "Only yours. Please
come with me."

He mashed his mouth against Alex's again; took hold of the
Italian's wrist and pushed his team mate's hand hard against his
crotch. "This is how much I love you, you shit. This is how much I
want you, how much I wanna be with you."

"I know, I know..." And Alex put his arms around him.

He raised himself up and let Alex push his jeans down, waited, his
cock bobbing hard and desperate in the air above his team mate as
the Italian divested himself of the last of his clothes and then
slid down and took his cock into his mouth, licking hesitantly at
the head before closing his lips around the shaft. "Ah Jesus - "

Alex under him, that mouth hot and sucking; the Italian trying to
take him in further, backing off a little but trying - "yeah, use
your teeth baby, that's it, c'mon, fucking hurt me" - crying out as
Alex's teeth scraped against the ridges of his cockhead, backing
off so that a string of the Italian's saliva hung drooling from his
prick, pushing Alex over onto his stomach, running his tongue in
long, sweeping strokes over the curve of Alex's ass as Alex moaned
something into the pillow and the Italian began to grind his own
erection into the bed beneath them. "Use the belt. Use the belt,
Jimmy please - "

Reaching down to the floor for it, looping it, sliding the leather
languorously over the sweeping descent of the Italian's back,
seeing the muscles flex and twitch in anticipation - "Please,
Jimmy" and he raised the belt and brought it down with all his
strength, hard, slashing it across Alex's skin, hearing Alex
whimper and as he saw the long red mark rise slowly to the surface
of the tanned skin he slid the edge of the belt down into Alex's
cleft as Alex spread his legs wider to allow him to run it across
his asshole.

He soothed the welt with his tongue, tasting the sweat that had
sprung up afresh, hearing Alex panting heavily, aware that the
movement of his hips against the bed were growing stronger, more
frenzied. "Again. Again, " Alex grunted.

"Yeah, my whore," he whispered hotly in the Italian's ear. "My
beautiful, unfaithful, fucking whore."

He thought of everything he'd felt since Alex had told him he was
leaving, remembered the fury that had built up inside him like a
fucking cancer, pushing through his bloodstream like a disease,
raping his skull like a bad trip and cold fucking turkey all in
one, and it was like a purging now as he brought the belt down
again and again with almost uncontrolled anger over Sandro's back
and shoulders and ass, hearing him cry out with each blow until
Alex's back was red and bruised and the Italian was shaking now,
crying into the pillow, and he threw the belt aside and angling his
cock at his team mate's asshole he slid all the way in as Alex
fucked back against him, urging him on, the Italian's cries of pain
and arousal driving him as he pulled them both onto their sides and
gripped Alex's hip hard to him as he curled his arm around his head
and put his hand across the Italian's mouth and the heat of the
raised welts on Zanardi's back and ass pressed against his chest
and stomach and groin and they were both sweating heavily now and
Alex cried out and began to shoot off into the tangled sheets and
as the Italian's hole tightened around him in hard, clenching
spasms he felt his own climax scorch through him and he gripped the
back of Alex's neck with his teeth so hard as to almost break the
skin.

Alex lay trembling, not moving as he fetched a cold wet towel and
sliding back into bed he pressed it gently against his team mate's
bruises. Neither of them spoke; nothing needed to be said. For the
first time he felt something approaching peace, a surrender to
whatever the future might bring; he felt this in Alex also, knew
too that their relationship had just gone through its strongest
test and survived and that the worst was over. Alex turned his head
up to him and they kissed, holding it for a long time, and he
dropped his head and placed his lips reverently against the
Italian's shoulder before spooning up against him and holding him
protectively, and he lay like this, watching over his partner,
touching his mouth to his hair occasionally until Alex fell into
sleep.

***

Niccolo Zanardi was born in Padova on the 7th of September, three
weeks premature but weighing a healthy six pounds. Alex missed the
birth by little more than an hour when he flew to be by Daniela's
side after wrapping up his second consecutive championship in
Vancouver. The weeks leading up to that were not easy on him: Mid-
Ohio saw him frustrated and distracted after Daniela had reported
pain and had to be admitted to hospital for observation; Williams
were stalling over the last details of the deal and Alex's mind was
not on his racing as he went off the track twice and had various
collisions with other competitors, one of which saw him docked the
sole point he earned and hit with a fine bigger than any in CART's
history.

The day after Alex's son was born, his Californian team mate held a
press conference to announce his re-signing with the Ganassi team
for a further three years. The decision, mulled over long and hard,
in the end turned out to be an easy one. Alex was leaving to go
back to family and friends; he too would miss family and friends if
he left. While the slight chance remained that Alex might stay, he
knew that at the end of the day it was a decision that had to be
made for him, not for Alex. As much as he loved his team mate he
knew things were changing now and to resist that change could only
lead to unhappiness. When Alex returned to the US after the birth
for the race in Monterey, California, he brought photos of his son
and the two team mates looked at them together in the Ganassi
transporter. "Congratulations, baby," he said softly, massaging
Alex's neck. "Maybe he'll grow up to be as fast as his dad one day,
huh?"

"Will you promise to come to Italy as often as you can so you can
see him? And so we can still spend time with each other?" Alex
asked.

"Try and keep me away."

"You could have come with me to Formula One - I know it's a new
team but they might go on to big things in the future and you would
have impressed them - there's a house next to mine in Padova that
you could live in; any time you want to, you know, you can move
there and we can see each other all the time, it would be like old
times again..."

He touched the Italian's face with his fingers and remembered Mo's
words: //"Some things are strong enough to withstand time and
distance. I think that what you have with him is one of them"// and
he knew the bedrock of their relationship was still firm, still
unaltered despite everything.

"I love you, Jimmy," Alex said.

"I know."

They went out for dinner that night in nearby Carmel to celebrate.
After picking up the tab he waited patiently while Alex phoned
Daniela to see if she was okay and to ask after the baby. "She
gives you her best," Alex said when he returned, "and she wants us
both to have a good evening." He felt a little doubt then, and Alex
put his hand on his friend's arm and said quietly, "Jimmy, she
knows. It's okay."

Still digesting this information he let Alex drive them back to the
hotel, and as they undressed each other slowly in the Italian's
room he said "But how did she - ?" and Alex quietened him with a
hand on his mouth. "She told me she had suspected for some time,
and that it was okay."

"And this...?" He touched the scar on the Italian's nipple.

Alex shrugged and gave a sad little smile. "It has not all been
easy."

He felt sadness then, sadness for those they might have hurt,
sadness because he himself knew he was neither victor nor
vanquished in this struggle to not give up what he had with his
team mate; he knew that what they felt for each other would last
forever, but that things would never again be the same as they had
been.

He took the Italian to bed and they made love slowly, nothing
rushed, knowing that any time they slept together now might be
their last. He was gentle with Alex, touching and caressing skin
that his team mate had allowed him to hurt when he'd thought he was
going out of his mind with grief and misery. As he straddled Alex
and took his hardness inside him he knew his penance would be the
seasons ahead without the Italian's closeness.

"I don't want to leave," Alex was saying, and he quietened him by
squeezing his internal muscles hard, raising himself so that only
the head of the Italian's cock was inside him and then taking Alex
in all the way, slowly, sheathing him with a movement so hard and
tight and enveloping that Alex thrust hard up into him with a
whimpering cry.

"Love the way you feel in me. Open me up, baby. Open me up with
that cock. Love the way you give it." He reached under him and
touched the slick base of his team mate's prick, the pubic hair
matted with sweat and pre-cum, felt the softness of the Italian's
balls against his ass as Alex moved inside him. He felt his team
mate's hands grip onto his thighs and looking down at that face
with its aquiline features caught in a frown of pleasure and rapt
concentration he remembered that it was here, in this hotel, a year
ago, that he and Zanardi had fucked for the first time, and the
significance of this hit him hard, that it was here now, this time,
that might be their last.

Alex looked up at him, mouthing something, trying to speak through
tears now as if the thought had communicated itself to him
simultaneously and he leaned over the Italian: "It's okay, baby,
it's okay..."

"Jimmy I don't know if I have made the right decision - "

"Sssh." He took Alex's face in his hands, kissed his forehead, his
mouth. "Give 'em hell next year for me baby, huh? I'll be with you
in spirit, you know that."

"It's not gonna be enough, it's not gonna be enough. Jimmy, I don't
know if I am doing the right thing, I thought I was but now
everything is changing and I don't know how I feel - "

He squeezed the Italian again and Alex turned his head to the side,
crying out as if in protest that what he was being made to feel now
was no longer bearable to him.

"Do you love me?"

"Yes."

"Then nothing's changed."

Alex accepted his kiss and he moved to sit upright again, half
supporting his weight on his knees as the Italian pushed inside
him, and they moved together and he was pushing down to meet his
partner's thrusts and he felt that if he put his hand on his belly
he'd feel Alex's prick in there, deep inside, moving and enclosed
beneath flesh and muscle, bone and membrane.

"Leave your sperm inside me. Give me something to remember you by."

And Alex was coming, crying out, the Italian's cock flexing and
jumping inside his rectum, and as Alex's hand wrapped around him he
too cried out and followed his team mate over the edge into
desperate, ecstatic oblivion.

***

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Wednesday, September 23rd 1998

Zanardi Joins Williams Formula One Team

GROVE, England - The Williams Formula One team today announced the
signing of double CART champion Alex Zanardi. Italian Zanardi, 31,
will join Ralf Schumacher for the 1999 season, replacing 1997
champion Jacques Villeneuve and Heinz Harald Frentzen at the
Williams team.

Zanardi drove in Formula One from 1991 to 1994 for Jordan, Minardi
and Lotus, competing in 25 races with a best finish of sixth place
in the 1993 Brazilian Grand Prix. Since 1996 he has driven in the
CART series in the US. Partnered with 1996 champion Jimmy Vasser
with Target/Chip Ganassi Racing, he become Rookie of the Year in
1996, and champion in 1997 and 1998, scoring a total of 14 wins in
48 races.

"It has been a fantastic three-year relationship with my friends at
Target/Chip Ganassi Racing," said Zanardi. "Honestly, I've had
opportunities to leave the team earlier on, but I never considered
them because I felt staying with Chip was the best opportunity for
me at the time. I feel that I have gotten the most out of my three
years and now it's time to turn a page in my career. I had a lot of
choices and in the end I felt that driving for Williams would
provide me with a fantastic technical package and fulfill my
personal needs."

Team owner Frank Williams, who achieved success with 1995 CART
champion and Indy 500 winner Villeneuve, said, "We are excited at
the prospect of welcoming a second transatlantic champion to the
team in Alex."

***

The California Speedway at Fontana, last race of the season, white
flag being shown for the last lap, accelerating through the turn
and down the start-finish straightaway for the last time, the last
time with Zanardi as his team mate.

"Green flag, buddy, green flag, go, go!" Tom Anderson, the team
manager, to him on the radio as he had been for the past 249 laps;
a 400-mile endurance run followed by a last frantic 100 miles
filled with crashes, engine failures, people spinning off the track
for no apparent reason, all the attendant insanity and brain fades
that come with driving balls-out for 500 pain, sweat and
discomfort-filled miles. But now the end's in sight - the end, and
possibly the win.

Greg gets the jump on him, shooting off into the distance like a
bullet from a gun but he stays with the blue Players car, is not
gonna let him go; is aware too that Alex is right behind him, has
been right with him all during these last few laps and the final
caution period, driving slowly up beside him as they toured round
waiting for the restart to give him a show of twin clenched fists -
//we can do this, we can win this//.

He lets the car go, feeling that stomach-dropping surge as he takes
off after the leader, and he closes up behind him, feeling the
sudden lightness on the steering, the lack of grip as the car is
sucked into the draft and he jinks a little left-right and waits,
waits, waits, getting an eyeful of Greg's rear wing and then
//boom//, pulls out quickly, is alongside him and is past, and he's
aware at the same time of Alex coming up on the inside of Greg like
a red fucking tornado and they are both past now, leaving the blue
car behind and he has a clear track ahead of him, the rays of the
dying California sun lasering into his visor, almost blinding him
with its glare as he goes into Turn Three, so close to home now, so
close to home and Alex's arms around him on the podium - //stay
with me, baby, stay close to me, not far now...//

And it's so pure now, this feeling of approaching victory, of
rushing to an end, of approaching an rapidly closing door that he
will shut behind him and start afresh; this chapter of his life
with Alex: best friend, team mate, soul mate, lover. And with the
instinct of all racers he rushes towards it, because it is
instinct, it's what he was born to do, and he understands this as
he keeps his foot flat to the floor, it's so fucking clear now,
swooping through the banking and down onto the start-finish
straight, the starter up in the flagstand holding out the twin
checkered flags and as he roars under them to take the win the
crowds in the packed-to-capacity grandstands scream their approval
and it's over, finished, and he lets off the throttle and sucks in
twin lungfuls of breath and it is only as Alex cruises up beside
him to give him the thumbs-up of congratulation that he realizes he
was holding his breath for almost the entire lap.

He pulls down low on the track and glides into pitlane and on
either side of the road ahead of him it seems that nearly every
team member of every CART team is there, applauding him, saluting
him, and he doesn't stop, drives right through and back onto the
now empty track to take the cheers of the crowd as the spectators
rise as one to their feet.

It is a day of bitter sweetness; his partnership with Alex is over
but they will be on the podium together. He is informed on the
radio that the Italian finished third, that he was passed by Greg
but managed to hold off the rapidly-closing Tecate car behind him.
Together they have finished first and second in the championship.

He comes back into the pits, slowly, and as he glides to a halt and
kills the engine a red-racesuit-clad figure comes running towards
him. As Alex kneels down beside him and grasps his gloved hand in
his own he flips up the visor and feels the last vestiges of a
dying breeze against the wetness of his face as his fingers close
hard round the Italian's. "Jimmy. You did it. You did it." Alex's
voice is hoarse with emotion: pride for his friend, sorrow for the
knowledge that they will have little time left together now that
the season is over and that soon he must fly home to begin his new
career.

It is the end of a chapter for both of them and he knows he does
not have much time as beyond Alex the rest of his Ganassi crew come
running towards him.

"Are you still my guy?" His voice is so strained from grief and
exhaustion he can barely form the words.

And Alex's hand clasps his with renewed strength as if sealing a
promise between them. "Always." And then the Italian is gone,
jostled to the side as he is engulfed by his crew clambering over
his car, reaching into his cockpit to help him undo his belts and
pulling him out to slap him on the back and shower him with bear
hugs and rough affection. Already the reporters are swarming around
him; up above a plane swoops overhead and a scatter of fake dollar
bills float down like printed confetti in tribute to the one
million dollars he has won for his team by taking this race.

Over the next few hours he will try not to think too much; try not
to think of the days and months ahead, of the fact that they will
be hard, that at times he will feel loneliness and frustration,
that he will miss his Italian with a longing so fierce it will
leave him bereft with the force of it, that he will feel regret for
the words said between them and the anger he felt and that
threatened to destroy them.

But for now, victory. And perhaps later, when the crowds have gone
home and the speedway is empty and the teams are packing up,
perhaps he will have the time to be alone with Alex for a little
while, for them to enjoy his victory together.

He turns to the reporter, puts on his game face, leans towards the
microphone and begins to speak.

End

(c)2001 Red Racer