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Aleix kisses him on the cheek at the press conference. Jorge hardly notices, too focused on trying to conceal his tears from the camera. There are people around; Pol, patting him on the shoulder, and Rins somewhere too, behind him, and then Pedro walks up, and everyone follows. He pulls away from Aleix slowly, too slowly given all the commotion, and adjusts his hat and wipes a few drying tears from his face, feeling the spot on his cheek. He thinks it’s still there, the kiss. It’s warm.
When the photos are over, Jorge wraps himself around Aleix and doesn’t move. He listens to Aleix breathe, says thank you, and then Aleix pats his elbow and smiles and he looks happy, actually, and Jorge knows he has to leave. He doesn’t want to sit back down, but he does, and watches Aleix pose with his family. He stares at the logo-printed wallpaper behind them, a mosaic of Monster Energy with Gran Premi De Catalunya in the middle. He wishes he were anywhere else. He wishes he weren’t in Barcelona, where Aleix is second only to Jesus. He wishes he could keep all his worship secret.
The press conference afterwards is brutal. Jorge tries to look forward into the waving sea of cameras, ignoring Pecco at his side giving the same answers as always. When Aleix is gone, these people will still be here, saying the same things. It's all worthless. When presented with a question, Jorge feels his knowledge of English slide out of his brain, frictionless. He fills the air with eh, and for sure, and we will try, and it's nothing. Less than nothing.
He's glad when it's over. He gets up to leave quickly – too quickly – the minute they're dismissed, and he knows Marc is looking at him, but can't parse his expression. Someone comes and grabs him, the Pramac social media manager, he thinks.
"I'm sorry, I can't," he says, and marches out of the room.
His helmet is still up there on the little stage, and he doesn't miss it. It's too heavy, too much to hide under. He remembers, briefly, his own breath fogging up the glass last year in Valencia. He'd been screaming from the moment he ran off at Turn 1, voice gone completely hoarse by the time he lowsided.
In the hallway, Pecco stops him. He's taken his hat off, like he's honoring a death. It feels wrong.
"Hey, it's okay," Pecco says, caution in his voice. His skin is so white, Jorge thinks, even in the middle of summer. Pecco's still talking while Jorge stares between his face and his own arm, compares the tones. "I remember when Vale left–"
"Aleix isn't Vale,"
"It doesn't matter. I know you care about him,"
"Don't try to be my friend now," Jorge says.
"I've known you for longer than half the paddock and you won't talk to me?" Pecco responds. He's not angry. That's probably been wired out of him.
"Right, like you haven't been holding a factory seat hostage," Jorge snarls, and it's fun to watch Pecco struggle.
"I'm trying to help you,"
"You never did before," Jorge says, and muscles his shoulder between him and the Italian. He's out the door before Pecco can turn around.
The first thing Jorge does once he's in his motorhome is take his team uniform off. He throws his branded Pramac shirt and hat into a pile on the floor, underneath the rest hanging neatly in the closet.
The place is a mess. Jorge doesn't like it. He's particular, knows this, always diligently repeating his pre race ritual, crouching twice at the exact spot where the concrete floors of the garage hits the hardened asphalt of the track. As he bulldozes down the narrow corridor and flops onto his unmade bed, he remembers the countless times he perfectly aligned his feet with the metal division between the two zones. Always centered, balanced, resting in between.
He never stays in his motorhome for long. On any other day, he'd be with Aleix right now, lounging on his couch. Most weekends, especially Saturday evenings, he lingers as long as possible, chatting deep into the night. He's never slept over in Aleix's motorhome, and never will, but leaves things there – hats, shirts, water bottles – for an excuse to come back.
Jorge grabs a pillow and shoves it over his face, feels it wet with tears and his own heavy breath. He wishes Aleix were here, but doesn't know why, just wants to see his face and wrap an arm around his shoulders.
He wishes Maria were here, too, but she won't get to Barcelona til the evening, and will be off at dinner with Lau and the kids anyway. Jorge tries not to regret asking her to wait, to not come to the press conference. Tries. He didn't want to cry in front of her, to make it too obvious the hurricane brewing in his head over the whole situation, but it's not like there weren't cameras around. She probably saw. She probably knows it's more than just losing a friend.
He thinks of her, her wide smile and the softness of her arms and then, shutting his eyes, of Aleix's strong back, and falls asleep.
He wakes up to his phone vibrating, scrambles around in the covers for it, but the call drops before he can answer.
It's Aleix.
He's at Aleix's motorhome before he can think. Aleix isn't there, or shouldn't be, but he knocks anyway. The sun leans anxiously into the horizon. As he waits, he watches his own long shadow, the glint of the windows, the reddening sky.
Aleix opens the door. He looks terrible. It's the greatest thing Jorge has ever seen. The creases of his face are pronounced in the light of dusk, the cut of his jaw so stark. He looks the way he does after a long day of cycling, stumbling to take off his gear and lie down or slump over in the sauna to recharge.
"Aren't you supposed to be with your family?" Jorge growls as Aleix lets him in, sleep still heavy in his chest.
"Jorge," Aleix says. The interior of the motorhome is impeccably clean, every surface shining, the bed made up in starched white sheets and pillowcases.
"They finally get to have you and you're not with them," Jorge repeats. No one has slept in this place for at least a week. No one might ever again.
Aleix shuts the door and stands back, too far. He's up against the counter of the miniature kitchen, which could easily be confused for an IKEA model. He knocks his arm against the blender, and Jorge hides a bitter laugh.
"I wanted to talk to you about this, not fight over it," Aleix says.
"You told me you were leaving," he says, "and it's okay. But you have to let me," he falters, feeling his throat start to tighten. He won't cry in front of Aleix again. "You have to let me deal with it,"
"But you knew. I asked you," Aleix says. He looks genuinely confused, his brows caught in the typical furrow of his forehead, something so easy and expected it makes Jorge want to scream. He knows every single one of Aleix's faces.
"It's okay," Jorge barks, "I'm okay with it,"
"You're crying, tio," Aleix says, and Jorge is. He plasters his hand over his face, tastes the salt of his tears.
"Stop," Jorge mutters, muffled.
Then, inexplicably, Aleix reaches out, loops his fingers around Jorge's wrist and pulls his hand away. "Are you mad at me?" Aleix asks, so honest.
"I thought– I thought–" Jorge starts, and he can feel his chest locking up. "You did everything. You gave everything to Aprilia, and now you just leave, and it doesn't make sense,"
"I told you everything," Aleix cuts back. He's so obvious when trying to tame his temper; when he shuts his eyes and breathes out, Jorge thinks he can feel the rush of air. "We talked about it, and I asked you, and you said it's okay. And it is okay, and you don't decide for me,"
"That's not what I mean!" Jorge shouts. "I never got time. You're leaving and it's all so fast,"
Aleix pulls his hand away. When he feels the warmth of his skin pull back, Jorge realizes he had been holding it. "I'm not leaving," Aleix says, sternly, like a father.
Jorge can feel his face going red. "Don't fucking say that,"
"You met my wife, my kids, you're practically a member of my family. How is that not enough? You don't need me with you on track, you're better than that,"
"Don't talk to me like I'm a child,"
"You said it yourself," Aleix says, "you're my eldest son. You're my best fucking friend,"
"You don't understand," Jorge retorts.
"What? What am I not understanding?" Aleix shouts, and he's starting to gesticulate, moving his hands wildly.
It feels familiar, like passing back and forth, like Argentina two years ago when he really wanted to beat Aleix, but kept running wide, pinning the throttle a moment too long. Aleix won then, and sobbed on the podium, cried that whole day, smiling broadly with his kids in either arm. Jorge spent all of it by his side, clapping him on the shoulders and hugging him and letting him cry, hugging Laura too, and the kids; Max was so excited that Jorge could barely get a hold of him. It was so easy, so easy. And disposable, in the end.
Well, that's the problem, isn't it.
"You kissed me," Jorge murmurs. He knows how this will go. He doesn't care.
"What, today in front of the reporters? Do you not want to be seen next to me anymore? I kissed my brother, too, and Maverick, what's wrong with that,"
"No," Jorge says, and Aleix drops his shoulders and starts to shake his head. "In Ibiza,"
Aleix looks up, eyes wide, his face inscrutable.
"You kissed me in Ibiza, on the mouth," Jorge repeats, "we were so drunk, maybe you don't remember it,"
The room feels massive, the gap between him and Aleix so wide, no chance to overtake.
"I remember it," Aleix says, "I thought you wanted to forget that,"
"No," Jorge says, and straightens himself. Aleix's eyes tighten, and he sets his jaw into that strong determined position Jorge only ever sees after a long, bad practice.
"So you're mad about something that happened multiple seasons ago? We were wasted, I didn't tell you to take a photo, I thought you were over it. You said nothing for two fucking years,"
"You didn't say anything either, you just let it happen–"
"I was blacked out! We both were! What else do you want from me?"
"You are so stupid," Jorge growls, and locks his hands into the front of Aleix's shirt and pulls.
The crash of their faces is no racing incident; no, there must be penalties awarded. Jorge wrenches his eyes shut and kisses Aleix hard, feels the angular press of his chin, the heat of his chest beneath Jorge's grip on the fabric. His lips are soft, and the kiss is familiar, heavy. He remembers Ibiza, Aleix's hands cupping his face, their closed mouths pressed to each other's. It was friendly, then, celebratory.
This is not like that.
Aleix's shoulders are slack. He's hardly moving at all, Jorge realizes, nearly holding his breath. He opens his eyes and shoves Aleix away, a forearm between them. Aleix steps back fast and keeps looking at him, silent.
"I – fuck, never mind," Jorge says, and starts to bolt for the door, slipping past Aleix. But before he can reach the handle, a hand grasps his wrist.
"Jorge,"
Aleix swings him around, fast, and pulls him back in, their noses knocking against each other. He's moving, suddenly, sliding his palm against Jorge's face, kissing him, actually kissing him. He slings his other arm around Jorge's shoulder, the same way he clings to a post-race hug, a full-body embrace Jorge comes to realize he'd taken for granted. Jorge draws in a shocked inhale and Aleix takes it as an invitation, open-mouthed. He's never seen him kiss Laura this way, this long.
When they part, Aleix runs his fingers through Jorge's hair, gently, and Jorge leans in to try to tuck into his neck, almost lands a kiss there.
"Jorge," Aleix says, and pushes him off gently.
Jorge doesn't want to detach from Aleix. If he sees Aleix's face now, sees the white pristine walls of the motorhome around him, the rest of the world continuing to spin, he will be flung off into outer space. He goes anyway.
"Um," he says, while Aleix is already asking if he's okay, and then their voices are toppling over each other in unison.
"Are you–"
"What, um–"
"How–"
And it feels like any other conversation, hurtling so fast from topic to topic, Aleix's rapid Catalan nearly outpacing Jorge, but he doesn't go down easily, never has.
"You say your thing,"
"No, you go," Aleix sighs, smiling.
"But– but you're married," Jorge says, and it feels ridiculous, the script from a bad soap opera.
Aleix just smiles warmly and says, "You think Lau doesn't know?"
"What?"
"Jorge, you're not exactly subtle. We were just, you know, waiting for you to figure things out."
"Oh my god," Jorge murmurs, and Aleix tugs on his hand, pressing their fingers together.
"It's okay,"
"But — I mean, I actually think I am, um, in love. With you. Both of you. Maybe with a lot of people."
"Really? I couldn't tell," Aleix says, chuckling.
Jorge looks away, faces the window. "I could've – I could've explained it, before, but now I can't. I think, well, with Maria and you and Laura in the paddock I have somewhere to put it, I guess, and Rinsy and Maverick too, and then everything's kind of balanced and I'm okay. But, I mean, I knew I loved you but I didn't know I loved you, but if you leave something will be missing and I can't get it back,"
Aleix nods. He's still smiling so kind, but his voice goes somber for a moment when he says, "I know."
Jorge swallows.
"I know – I knew it would hurt you, if I left. I would have kissed you more, before,"
"You would?"
"Yes," Aleix says, and runs his hand over the crown of Jorge's head, feels his hair where it's getting a little long. "But we still have time,"
Jorge turns back to him. "Do we?"
"We do," Aleix responds, and kisses him.
Later, when Jorge is sprawled on the couch while Aleix does god knows what in his tiny kitchenette, he finally texts Maria.
Something happened between me and Aleix, he texts her. He watches the three dots appear, disappear, reappear for a lifetime before he launches his phone to the other end of the cushions. It pings.
Okay
He's tempted not to say more. She doesn't start typing again, though, so he obliges.
You remember Ibiza
I wasn't there
But you remember it right
He waits. Her typing bubble sits steadily at the bottom of the screen. She knows what he's referring to.
Yes
Well
I kissed him again
Okay
????????
Did I care last time?
No but I was so drunk
It was cute
What the fuck am i supposed to say to that?????????
Was he mad this time
No
Are you mad
No
Well I'm not mad
Really
Yes
Do you want me to prove it
Prove it how
1 attachment. A video. Maria's holding her phone a little too high, almost over her head, and then Laura slots in at her side. He knows they see each other on their own time, knows even that they are supposedly having dinner together tonight, right now.
Maria hesitates when Laura slides her hand across her cheek, slowly. She's still eyeing the camera, and Laura glances up too, and Jorge realizes this is absolutely not normal for both of them, but then Maria just giggles, slightly nervous, and kisses Laura.
He realizes he hasn't replied, sitting stock still watching the clip loop, when a text from Maria pops up at the top of his screen.
Jorge
I'm sorry if that was the wrong choice
Do you want to talk this out
And that's it, that's his person, that's the reason he does all this.
I love you so much
Love you too have to get back to dinner byeeeeee
(Even later, when they're in bed together again, Maria leans over and tells Jorge that Laura kisses better than him. He smiles.)