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There’s something in Pecco that pushes him to go to Jorge’s motorhome after the race, the interviews and the in paddock celebrations are over. He knows he doesn’t have to, that technically he already congratulated him earlier, but he somehow needs to make it more personal than simple hugs exchanged in front of the cameras.
So he gets the confirmation that Jorge is available and he knocks at his door. He’s almost fully dressed for the ceremony already. He has his pants on and his shirt, but no tie and no jackets. To make it more casual or something like that.
He’s allowed in and blinks when he sees Jorge’s state. He’s barely out of the shower, a towel loosely wrapped around his hips, drops still rolling down his tanned skin. Pecco’s eyes follow the trajectory of one, the way it runs along Jorge’s abs until it gets lost around his pelvis. He snaps his head up, trying to shake any thought that comes to his mind.
“Um… maybe I’ll come back later?”
“Wait, don’t-!”
Pecco has momentarily let go of the door and it closes with a heavy sound. Jorge groans.
“I broke the door earlier while celebrating. We may be in big trouble.”
“Fuck. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I should have told you right away. Why did you come here?”
“Oh, I wanted to extend my congratulations to you.”
Jorge briefly turns around, grabbing a pair of boxers and getting them on. Pecco has all the time in the world to see his bare ass and he gulps at the view, wondering why he came here. It’s not a good idea, it never has been. But still.
“Again. To extend my congratulations to you again.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Jorge seems a bit embarrassed but pretty happy to see him. Pecco can look at him more closely now that he has covered the obvious. He notices a tattoo he hasn’t really seen until there, ‘tu nombre’ around his hip, tempting and intimate, without being too low.
“So we’re stuck in here until someone notices our disappearance. It’s better to make yourself comfortable in the meantime.” Jorge gestures for him to sit on the sofa.
He nods and undoes a few buttons of his shirt. It almost feels like it’s a bit too hot inside, or maybe it has to do with Jorge’s state of undress. Not focusing on it is hard when it’s all he can see. He clears his throat.
“That tattoo… for who it is?”
“Which tattoo?”
Pecco doesn’t know what compulses him to act so boldly but he leans forward and brushes the inscription with his fingers, caressing Jorge’s skin in passing. He wants to step back but Jorge grabs his hand to keep it in place.
“Why are you asking?”
It’s probably for Mery. It must be. Such a sensual and tempting spot, with specific words engraved on his skin. He takes a deep breath. He could try to free himself from his grasp but does he really want to?
“Because you didn’t have this when we were together… and you never talked about it either.”
“I can’t tell you that.”
It doesn’t make any sense. Jorge has no reason to hide this from him. Except if his assumption is wrong. It sounds like half a confession. Like it could be for him, but it can’t be, right?
Jorge looks at him with such intensity. His eyes seem darker than usual. Daring him to do something. Vulnerable to the point where he’s almost choked by the intimacy settling between them.
“Jorge, is that…?”
Jorge moves closer, his grip on him gentle, as if to leave him the choice to refuse. Pecco doesn’t understand right away what it is about, and when he can feel his breath on his lips, he’s too tempted to do anything other than filling the gap.
It’s like a spark. Jorge is ravenous against him, taking and taking, and Pecco tries to hold onto him as much as he can. This brings back memories of the past, of what they could have been. He’s wanting him so badly and the realization troubles him as much as it gets him desperate for more.
One of Jorge’s hands gets stuck in his hair, gripping his curls, like he needs something to stay anchored to reality. Pecco touches Jorge’s body. At first it’s more of an unconscious act, something he does without being aware, that accompanies their kiss. But then it just hits him, the way Jorge’s body feels against him, hard and solid, far from an ashamed fantasy that he would have needed to bury, and it’s too good.
Jorge is so pretty. So sensual. Manly. He’s different from Domi in many aspects, maybe that’s why he chose her in the end. He couldn’t bear his own emptiness and his loneliness, he didn’t like being surrounded, but there had to be someone by his side. Everything was complicated.
One kiss stops and right away, another starts. They can’t get enough. Pecco is out of breath and his lips are buzzing but he keeps it going. He’d rather run out of air with Jorge’s mouth on his than just give up this passionate embrace.
Jorge’s eyes are so dark, full of desire. He has grown uncomfortably tight in his pants and one look at Jorge confirms that it’s the same for him. Any thought of what’s next has been pushed away. The world could end and they’d just stay here, like they could be enough for each other’s survival.
Pecco chokes a little when Jorge shoves a hand down his pants, reaching for his cock a bit too quickly. His fingers close around his length, and he thrusts his hips into his fist, wanting more contact.
“Fuck, Pecco you’re so- fuck.” Jorge pants out, and his voice is lower than he has ever heard him.
He moans into the kiss, taken aback by the way Jorge is working him off. He should help him out as well, the way his erection is straining the fabric is distracting and tempting. No, he has to do something about it. He wants to, he wants it badly, he wonders how far they could go-
“Hello? Jorge?”
They both freeze when they hear the voice. Someone has been knocking on the door but they didn’t hear it, too caught up in the moment. Pecco is out of breath and seeing Jorge is like a punch in the guts. His lips are swollen and so pink, just like his cheeks, he’s obviously pretty gone as well, his hair is a mess.
He must look similar. But he just wants to hold him and touch him more. He wants to hear what kind of noises he’d make when he’ll touch him. He wants to see that look in his eyes…
“Can I come in?”
“Wait a moment please.”
Jorge’s voice still sounds too low for it to be normal but he managed to control his tone pretty well.
“Fuck… fuck,” Jorge swears, visibly frustrated.
He is as well. They couldn’t finish and his body still burns, while his mind is not the clearest.
“I’m sorry. It was… I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault, Pecco. I think we’re running late though.”
He nods. A simple glance at a mirror makes him see how he looks. It’s terrible to say the least. He definitely needs to change his shirt, maybe his boxers. His clothes are wrinkled and he positively looks fucked out.
“Are we okay?” Jorge asks him with a cautious smile.
“We are.”
Jorge pulls at the hem of his shirt and kisses him again. Just a simple kiss, nothing as intense as before, barely a peck. Pecco knows he’s blushing.
“I’ll… I’ll text you, right? I’ll see you this evening. I hope. Yes?”
“Yes.”
Jorge beams at him and he goes open the door. Pecco uses that moment to leave as well. He gets back to his own motorhome where he finds Domi who raises an eyebrow.
“Sorry I got stuck in Jorge’s motorhome, his door is broken.”
“And you didn’t have your phone?”
His… phone. Right. He blinks. He totally forgot about it. Domi must see it on his face because she fondly rolls her eyes.
“Boys, I swear. We have to hurry, we’re late.”
“Yes, just give me two minutes. I’ll be right back.”
He reaches his room and thanks the fact he actually took spares with him. He wishes he had time for a cold shower but that’s far from being the case, and he just jumps into the car with his wife, trying to avoid thinking about how he’d like for someone else to be here instead, and to finish what they started earlier.
Pecco smiles for the cameras but he almost pays no attention to his surroundings. They’re running late so they hurry after a few pictures to come inside. Jorge is just as late as he is though, and it makes him amused. They’re sitting and he keeps glancing in his direction.
His suit looks great on him. Pecco wants to undress him so bad and to fuck him right there. Or be fucked right there, he doesn’t really care. He tries to chase the thoughts from his head because he knows it’s no good when they’re at an official event but it’s hard to focus.
Their eyes meet, Jorge smiles at him, so bright and daring, tempting him to do anything and he has to look away and breathe deeply.
Domizia asks him several times what’s wrong and he tries to reassure her as best as he can. He covers it with the disappointment of losing the championship, because that’s what is acceptable, not the fact of wanting to become unreasonably intimate with his rival.
He tries to mention casually the address of the club Jorge invited him to, mentioning that Maria will be there as well, as he knows the two get along well. Maybe he doesn’t need to justify himself as much and it actually gets suspicious that he does, but he’s just relieved when she agrees to go.
It’s hard to pay attention to the ceremony and he’s relieved when it ends. It’s selfish of him, he knows, to want to keep whatever happened back in Jorge’s motorhome, going, but he knows if he doesn’t do it then he will regret it for the rest of his life. He needs, he has, to indulge in his deepest desires, at least for tonight.
When they get in the club, he makes his way to Jorge’s side as quickly as possible. Jorge smiles when he sees him coming, but he doesn’t move, he lets him do it, he lets him make the last barriers between them fall down. As much as Pecco would want to get started and has been obsessing over it ever since his hands left Jorge earlier on, to the point he wonders if Jorge didn’t use a spell to bewitch him, it’s not that easy.
How can he even find an excuse to take him away from that crowd, and their partners? Pecco keeps glancing at Jorge, wondering if he still wants this as much as he does, only to find him staring back, with a kind of relief. They both mostly changed clothes from their gala suit, and he finds himself slightly disappointed that he won’t be able to take that white shirt off him.
He attempts to regain some composure. He sips on his drink. Domi seems to already enjoy the moment, and Jorge slips between them right in time to take his attention away. Of course he does. Who is he kidding, Jorge somehow always manages to get his attention. Even when Pecco tells himself not to look, not to fall into it again, Jorge tilts his head just right, grins like he knows all his secrets, and it's over.
They stand close. Closer than necessary. Pecco blames the crowd at first, the press of bodies, the excuse of noise, but Jorge isn’t touching him, he’s just there, radiating warmth and tension and a kind of magnetism that makes Pecco ache.
"You look good tonight," Jorge says, like it’s an afterthought, eyes dragging over him in a way that feels anything but casual.
Pecco tries to keep his face neutral. He shrugs.
"You’re the one who won."
Jorge chuckles softly, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There’s something fragile there, underneath the confidence. Something like doubt. After a beat, Jorge leans in a little closer, lips brushing the rim of his glass. Pecco brushes aside the thought of wanting them to be on his skin instead.
“I’m glad you came.”
The words land heavier than they should. Not in a dramatic way, not loaded with obvious meaning, but quietly sincere, and Pecco hears what’s under them. The fear Jorge won’t name. That maybe Pecco wouldn’t come at all. That maybe this, whatever this has become, was nothing in the end. That what happened in his motorhome would be a one time only.
Pecco’s throat tightens. He swallows hard, then meets Jorge’s eyes and says;
“I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”
It’s too much. He knows it as soon as it leaves his mouth. Too honest. Too unguarded. He’s not usually this raw, he has better control, but as always Jorge unsettles him. They’ve known each other for too long to be just strangers.
Jorge stills, glass halfway to his lips, eyes wide with something close to wonder. For a heartbeat, the room fades, whether it’s music, lights, the blur of people, and it’s just them. Jorge looking at him like he’s never been seen so clearly before. Like the world tilted, and he’s catching his balance again by holding on to Pecco.
It’s a lot to take. Everything is going too fast. Pecco doesn’t want to have made a mistake. He shifts his weight, suddenly unsure, wanting to take back those words before anything goes awry.
“Sorry. That came out-”
Wrong . He wants to say, but Jorge doesn’t let him.
“No.” Jorge tells him in a rush, but soft. He reaches out without thinking, fingers curling around Pecco’s hand. His grip is gentle, grounding. “Don’t apologize.”
Pecco stares down at their hands, at the way Jorge’s thumb brushes over his knuckles. He feels too warm all of a sudden, like the air’s thick with something unnamed, familiar.
“Do you want to get out of here?”
It’s just a whisper from Jorge. There’s no pretense now, no jokes or coyness. Just the question hanging between them, and everything it carries. Pecco hesitates, not because he doesn’t want to, but because he wants it too much. He knows what this means. What it will mean. What he hopes it means. But Jorge is still holding his hand, waiting for his answer, with hopeful eyes. So Pecco nods once, heartbeat loud in his ears.
“Lead the way.”
They leave without much of a word. Jorge glances once in Maria's direction, but he doesn’t tell her anything. Pecco barely looks at Domi, afraid she'd see him and read too much in his expression. They’re running away, he figures. It’s not something to be proud of, but he feels electric. He trails behind Jorge, lets him drag him through the back of the club, into the slightly less chaotic streets.
He expects Jorge to walk toward the paddock. Instead, Jorge lifts a hand and a cab pulls over like it was meant for them. Pecco almost asks where they’re going, but Jorge gives the address with such ease it doesn’t feel like a question is welcome. So he gets in, silent, letting the momentum carry him.
The hotel is a good one. More than good, actually. It reeks of quiet luxury, nothing loud, but expensive in a way that you feel in the carpets and the weight of the elevator doors. Jorge leads him to the penthouse, swipes the key card without hesitation.
The suite opens up with a view of the city, lights bleeding into the windows, artificial, bright and dizzying. Jorge lets him in first and Pecco takes a moment, blinking at the expanse of space. The others must still be out in the streets, somewhere down there, celebrating. He should be with them. With her. They both shouldn’t be together. But they’re here. It’s too late to regret.
If he’s honest, he’s not really sure he will regret it.
Jorge pours them wine. Pecco watches the red liquid swirl, watches the way Jorge’s fingers wrap around the glass.
“You should let me. You’re the one who won.”
“Don’t bother.” Jorge shrugs, holding out a glass for him.
It’s a good wine too. An old one, from an expensive brand. Pecco grabs a drink but doesn’t do much more than to wet his lips with the liquid. He’s rather fascinated by the view in front of him, by the way everything is unfolding.
Pecco’s phone buzzes in his pocket but he ignores it. The sound feels intrusive, ugly in the stillness. Instead, he reaches out, fingers wrapping around Jorge’s waist. Jorge leans into the touch, soft and pliant, and when Pecco kisses him, Jorge seems to melt like he’s been waiting for it all evening.
“The room, it’s the penthouse.” Pecco says between two kisses, because it still bothers him. “It can't be a coincidence.”
Jorge’s cheeks turn red. It suits him more than it should. A nice touch on his golden skin, like ink amongst all the others, but a temporary one. There’s barely any taste of alcohol on his breath, despite the fact he’s the newly crowned champion. Pecco remembers getting so drunk the first time he won that he lost half the night to the fog of celebration. Jorge is the opposite. Measured. Cautious. Like he was waiting for something. For him, maybe. Hopefully.
There are more kisses, until Pecco’s mouth is buzzing and a bit sore. The tempting promise of going further than that lingers, but Jorge pulls back just slightly, enough for their foreheads to touch.
“There’s… there’s a jacuzzi. Why not enjoy it?”
It’s unexpected, but Pecco doesn’t have a reason to refuse. It’s Jorge’s night. Jorge’s win. If he wants the pace slower, Pecco won’t push. But still, the penthouse, the jacuzzi, the wine, it all seems so carefully planned. Even if Jorge couldn't know whether the evening would turn out like this. Was this for his girlfriend and him? But... he wouldn't take the risk that she'd know where they are and could discover them.
He tries to dispel the thought to rather enjoy the moment. He can think about it after, when it’s all over, and he has nothing but memories for himself.
Instead of dwelling further, he follows Jorge into the large bathroom, eyes widening slightly at the size of the tub when he gets a view of it. The way the lights dim and reflect off the water give it an intimate atmosphere.
“There are no swimsuits,” he remarks, and it makes Jorge smile.
“We don’t need them anyway.”
He sheds his clothes easily. Too easily. Pecco watches every movement, the way Jorge’s skin catches the light, how he stretches, how he walks like he belongs here. Pecco’s eyes keep drifting back to the tattoo curling around Jorge’s hip, tu nombre , a quiet, intimate mark he is still hoping to comprehend. Hoping that it’s for him. His breath catches. But then Jorge pauses at the edge of the water, waiting. There’s something hesitant in the way he looks back at him.
Pecco breathes out slowly and undresses. The water is warm, somehow at the perfect temperature, as he slides in. Jorge starts talking, light things at first. He tries to focus on the words, but they’re both naked and close, and he’s hyper aware of every movement.
Still, Jorge is soft with him. He beams, if that’s what it is, when Pecco makes a joke. He brushes their knees together, like it’s casual. He’s truly a sight to see. Like a statue. Pecco could spend the whole evening watching him if there wasn’t this hunger lying low in his stomach.
Pecco is still looking at Jorge when he lets his head fall back against the tiled edge, eyes fluttering shut as a small, satisfied sigh leaves his mouth.
“God, this is better than the ice baths.”
Pecco chuckles under his breath, the sound reverberates in the steamy hush of the room, reinforcing the intimate mood. He’d rather laugh, and not think about all the ways he could get Jorge to release that kind of breath.
“You used to complain a lot about those.”
Jorge opens one eye, looking at him with mock offense.
“I did not.”
“You did,” Pecco insists, lips curving. “Every single time. You’d last two minutes and then start whining that your balls were going to fall off.”
“That’s medically accurate. Besides … you weren’t much better.”
“I didn't say I was.”
Pecco shrugs, dipping a hand into the water, watching the ripples spread. There’s a comfortable pause. Jorge shifts closer, water lapping gently around them. His shoulder brushes Pecco’s, and he doesn’t move away.
“You remember that time in Jerez?” Jorge asks, voice quieter now, more thoughtful. “When we’d finished that practice and the physio made us go in together? I swear the tub wasn’t meant for two people.”
“You splashed half the water out trying to escape.”
Pecco laughs at the memory, it’s vivid in his mind. Whenever he thinks back, he gets nostalgic about that era. About how close they were and how everything seemed easier. Jorge grins.
“I didn’t realize your knees were so pointy.”
“You were seventeen,” Pecco says, voice dipping slightly. “The context was... a bit different.”
Jorge hums in agreement, gaze lingering on him now.
“Yeah. Everything was about getting faster, getting better. No time to think.”
“And now?” Pecco asks, not entirely teasing.
Jorge doesn’t look away. Pecco expected him to. They turned away back then, because it was easier. Because they weren’t ready for everything this meant. He’s not sure they are more ready today, it seems like things have gotten even worse.
“Now I think about things.”
The silence that follows is denser, but not uncomfortable. The weight is familiar, just as familiar as the trip down the memory lane that Jorge initiated.
“The tattoo, is it…”
For me. He doesn’t dare to say it out loud but it doesn’t matter because Jorge gets it anyway. He nods, and the weight of the moment settles between them, that silent confession heavier than words. Pecco swallows, feeling the past rush in. The way they so deeply impacted each other despite it all.
“You’ve changed.” Pecco says eventually, to restart the conversation.
He’s watching the way Jorge’s hair clings to his forehead, the slight flush to his cheeks from the heat. Jorge has always been beautiful, even then, but now… there’s the weight of more years, the unspoken confidence, the sharpness beneath his cheekbones. A stranger, that is not quite one.
“So have you,” Jorge murmurs. “But... not the way you look at me.”
Pecco blinks.
“What way is that?”
“Like you did back then. When I wasn’t supposed to notice.”
He opens his mouth to reply, but Jorge shifts again, this time fully turning toward him. Their legs tangle slightly under the water, knees bumping, and Jorge doesn’t pull away. Pecco’s breath halts.
“I’m glad you came,” Jorge repeats softly, like it costs him a little to admit it. “I kept thinking you wouldn’t.”
“I almost didn’t. But I would’ve regretted it.”
It’s the truth, as naked as they are. It would’ve been easier to ignore the invite, to ignore what happened in the motorhome, to pretend to stay what they are, rivals, with a shared past. But Pecco has a history with complicated paths.
Jorge’s lips curve, gentler now.
“You always were stubborn.”
“I’m not the only one,” Pecco answers, and something in Jorge’s eyes sparkles, whether it’s humor, recognition, maybe even hope.
Their fingers brush, brief and deliberate. No rush now. Just the warmth of the water, the hush between them, and all the years they’ve carried to this point, finally distilled into something tender, possible. Then at some point, the conversation finally trails off again, and Jorge shifts closer, until he’s climbing onto his lap.
The kiss is slower this time. Less hunger, more exploration. Jorge touches his cheek, his jaw, kisses the corner of his mouth like it’s something new. Pecco’s hands trail down his chest, his ribs, the curve of his spine. He palms Jorge’s ass, firm and perfect under his fingers.
He’s starving for him. Jorge moans softly into the kiss, one hand on Pecco’s shoulder, the other gripping his hair. He’s grinding down now, their cocks brushing, the friction unbearable in the best way.
“Bed,” Jorge whispers against his lips. “Let’s get on the bed.”
Pecco huffs out a laugh.
“We’re wet.”
“We can get a towel.”
Jorge kisses him again, a promise and an invitation in one. Pecco lets him lead. The room feels cooler on their wet skin, but Jorge throws him a towel, rubs his hair messily, grinning like they’re teenagers sneaking around. It’s stupid and light and makes something warm bloom in his chest.
The bed is wide and soft, and Jorge pushes him onto it with more confidence than Pecco expects. Jorge looks heavenly, as always. His wild smile, his golden eyes. Pecco could drown into him.
Jorge settles between his thighs and goes down on him slowly, deliberately. Pecco gasps, one hand gripping the sheets, the other buried in Jorge’s hair. He doesn’t even know how to breathe through it. It’s too sudden but he hasn’t wanted anything more than this. The continuation of what happened in the motorhome, and more.
Jorge sucks his cock like he wants to memorize it, tongue teasing, mouth warm and tight. He goes all the way down his throat, past his gag reflex, with an eagerness that reflects the time he waited for this. Or so Pecco thinks.
Pecco can’t last in a situation like this, even if he’d like to. He can’t last because it’s really good. Because it’s Jorge on his knees for him, looking divine, even as he’s doing such a thing. Pecco’s body shakes. Although he warns Jorge, Jorge doesn’t stop and swallows every bit of him like it’s nothing.
Pecco is recovering, panting, and watching Jorge licking his lips, brushing his lips with a thumb. A noise comes out of his throat, something helpless and needy, and he pulls Jorge forward to kiss him.
Jorge moans against his mouth, as Pecco’s hands travel down. There’s Jorge’s erection, untouched, and he could return the favor. He considers it as he recovers, his breaths still shallow as he hasn’t stopped the kisses.
Earlier, he felt the cold air. Now it seems burning against his skin. It’s like fever has seized him whole, and the night feels like it’s just starting as Jorge climbs over him. Pecco traces every line of his body, mapping as much as he can, and smiles when he senses Jorge shivering underneath his fingertips.
Pecco reverses their position, pushing Jorge underneath him. The contrast of his tan skin against the white sheets is almost too much to look at directly, so he busies his mind and kisses a path down his torso, grazing his lovely pecs with his teeth. He wants to take his time, he wants the night to last forever.
Jorge buries his hands in his hair the moment Pecco sucks a little longer on one of his nipples. He can’t get enough of Jorge, of his skin, of the way it feels under him. Even the taste. He wants to engrave it in his mind, so he can never forget about it, so that the image comes back to him whenever his eyes close.
He leans down again, lips brushing along Jorge’s stomach, lower still. His mouth pauses at the curve of Jorge’s hip, at the ink that curls there. Tu nombre . It’s crazy. Maybe they’ve always been a bit insane about each other. The confession could definitely make him, for the way Jorge let go but didn’t at the same time.
Pecco traces the tattoo with the tip of his tongue, kisses it softly, almost reverently. Jorge’s breath hitches, his whole body tensing for a second before he lets out a shiver. His skin flushes under Pecco’s mouth, and Pecco drinks in the sensation, drunk on this ephemeral way to mark Jorge as his own. He’s already there, written into Jorge’s skin, whether he deserves it or not.
He could stay like this forever, worshipping every inch of Jorge’s skin, dragging soft noises out of him with his mouth. But there’s a shift in Jorge’s breath, in the way his fingers tighten in Pecco’s hair, like he’s reaching for something more.
Pecco lifts his head slowly, their eyes meeting. There’s heat there, yes, but something else too, something quieter. Jorge reaches blindly for the nightstand, finds the lube and presses it into Pecco’s hand without a word. Pecco hesitates, the moment suddenly heavier.
“What about condoms?” he asks, voice low.
Jorge swallows. His gaze holds his. There’s a demand laying there, in a way that wouldn’t force him if he were to refuse.
“Please,” Jorge adds, barely more than a whisper.
It’s the way he says it. Not desperate, not rushed, but open. Vulnerable. And Pecco understands. Jorge doesn’t want to keep anything between them. Maybe he’s like him, wanting this night to stretch as long as it can, wanting to feel everything and remember it.
Pecco nods. He leans in to kiss him again, slower this time, reverent. Then he slicks his fingers, breath caught in his throat, and prepares him with a care that makes Jorge tremble. He does his best to be good to him, he tries to channel all of the times he hoped for it to happen, all of the desires that he kept secret until there. It was something that should have never happened, that should have been impossible. Yet, it’s all so real.
He sinks into him with a gasp, Jorge clinging to him, arms wrapped tight around his neck. They move together in rhythm, hips rocking slowly, mouths brushing, breathing each other in. Jorge’s eyes flutter closed and open again, raw and open and soft.
It’s not rushed, not really. It’s needy, yes, but tender in a way that makes Pecco ache. Like Jorge is letting him in somewhere deeper than skin. The rhythm is restless, full of energy. They’re both bad at letting go, chasing that high until they are about to collapse. Until Jorge gasps against his throat, tightening around him, and Pecco follows with a low groan, burying his face in Jorge’s shoulder.
They take some time untangling. And even then, Jorge keeps an arm around him, although he’s not looking at him. They just lie like that for a while, breathing, and unable to speak. The silence feels good, because of everything that could happen now.
Pecco doesn’t know where he stands. He lets the high wash over him, until he has calmed down enough for coherent thoughts to flood his mind. They shouldn’t be doing this. They can’t do this. But he’s sort of desperate. He can’t believe that it’s already over. In one night, the world has suddenly seemed significantly lighter. Letting back to its normal weight is a punch in the guts.
“I’m gonna take a shower.” Jorge tells him, gentle.
Pecco watches him stand up, fully naked. His perfect body, his nice curves, the marks he left on him. Jorge is a thing of beauty and he has always known that. Way too well. It never seemed right though, to be aware of it.
He sits up, finds his phone. He has missed calls and messages. It’s probably the same for Jorge. He catches himself texting back before he decides not to. Not now. He doesn’t want to break the bubble. He brushes his curls away from his forehead, then decides to follow Jorge.
He’s standing under the spray of the shower, he doesn’t hear him enter the room. Pecco just joins, it gets a soft smile to appear on Jorge’s lips when he realizes his presence. They wash up next to each other, helping too. They’re not ready to talk yet, so they don’t. At some point, Pecco’s mouth finds Jorge’s and they kiss again, freely, like the lovers they will never get to be.
It’s soft and intimate, and Pecco holds Jorge against him, without it being anything more. No hunger, no lust, just the depths of their secret hanging between them.
At some point, growing tired, they finally step out. Jorge hands Pecco a towel, and for a moment they just stand there, drying off without speaking, stealing quiet glances in the mirror. It should feel awkward, maybe, but it doesn’t, not really. It just feels fragile. This whole evening has let them display an intimacy they don’t know what to make of.
Pecco follows Jorge back to the bed. They slip under the covers, still damp in places, skin warm against skin. Jorge fits against his side like they’ve been doing it forever, like his body remembers how to do this even if their minds are scrambling to keep up. It feels terrifyingly good. Like too much and not enough at the same time.
Pecco remembers when they used to be teammates, the world seemed wider back then, but also less scary. People cared little about them, and they were more free. It looks a bit silly, the way they grew up and became more accomplished, yet more shackles accumulated on their ankles. It should be the opposite.
He tries to think about something else, but fatigue is all he can find. He doesn’t want to let go at first, because letting go means putting an end to this. It means welcoming a new day and breaking the tranquil bubble they locked themselves in ever since they stepped in this room. But he can’t resist forever.
The morning finds them tangled up in the sheets, skin warm against skin, breaths syncing in the slow rhythm of sleep and half-sleep. Pecco wakes first, or maybe he’s been half-awake for a while, his cheek pressed against Jorge’s chest, Jorge’s arm wrapped securely around his back like he’s trying to keep him there. Like he’s shielding him from the rest of the world.
For a moment, Pecco lets himself believe they could stay like this. Just lying here, without the weight of what comes next. Without the complications waiting outside this room. Without the people, the women of their lives and their careers. He has everything he’s ever wanted right now, more than he’s even let himself admit before last night. And it scares him. But it’s also the happiest he’s felt in months, maybe years.
He shifts slightly, presses a kiss to Jorge’s collarbone. Jorge hums softly, eyes still closed, but his lips find Pecco’s hair in return, a kiss pressed into his curls, lazy and fond. Pecco smiles against his skin.
He knows it can’t last forever. The day will catch up with them, sooner or later. But right now, Jorge is still holding him close, and Pecco can feel it in the way his fingers trace small, absentminded circles on his back: Jorge doesn’t want to let go either.
A few minutes pass in silence, just breathing each other in. Then Jorge’s voice breaks the stillness, soft and raspy from sleep.
“You got plans for the break?”
Jorge is nonchalant, like he’s asking about the weather, but there’s something underneath it. A thread of hope, or maybe just a suggestion, like he’s already thinking about how to find a way to see him again.
Pecco lifts his head, meets Jorge’s gaze for a second longer than he probably should. His chest tightens, but not in a bad way.
“Not yet,” he murmurs. “Maybe I should make some.”
Jorge smiles, small and real.