Chapter Text
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J U L Y of 1 9 8 9
“Hey, kid!”
Two words.
Jean spins his head around with surprise. For a moment, he couldn’t quite make out who was speaking to him. Blinking into the sun, he shields his eyes with his hand. “What do you want?”, he blisters back quickly. It's then that Jean’s vision clears. He knows the speaker--not personally. He knows him from the TV, from newspapers and magazines. By name and legacy alone, nothing else. He knows him from stories and word of mouth.
Nelson Piquet.
Before the first impression has already reached him, Jean comes to his own conclusions about him. He’s never been one to stay in his head for too long after all.
Nelson crosses his arms, “Are you new or something?”
Jean takes a peek down at his blue overalls. The cuffs of his sleeves are already thick of dirt despite having just put them on. It is his first race after all. “Does it look like I’m headed to the clown show?”, Jean chuckles nervously.
Something hidden flickers at the back of Nelson’s eyes then. It was as though a dying spark had suddenly recognized something familiar within him. “If you are,” a slight smirk rises his upper lip, “Then you’re at the right place.”
There’s a minute of silence between them. It’s accompanied by the hum of the paddock lifting its energy before the race. “I wonder what my team will think about me talking to you,” Jean hums thoughtfully. He’s terrible at holding his tongue.
“Why the hell do you care what everyone else thinks?”, Nelson waves him away as if he were as bothersome as a fly.
“I don’t.” Jean doesn’t alter his tone.
“Good,” Nelson nods, “You’re already doing better than most of the idiots here.” They always said Nelson never missed a beat when something’s on his mind. But there’s that same flicker in his eye Jean had noticed before, a pinch of melancholy that stands out from the liberation of his movements.
“For a man who says a lot you sure do seem to think more.”
“Didn’t your parents ever beat you for speaking so freely?”
“No,” Jean grins loosely. A hint of mischief glimmers within him. “I may race under the French flag but I’m Italian to the core.”
“I can tell by the accent, kid,” Nelson sneers.
Jean furrows his brow, “Why do you talk to me as if I’m constantly doubting you?” The smile is gone. Nelson’s face is blank as if his expression had never been there to begin with. The hustle growing louder, Jean senses that the conversation is over. As he leaves, he tosses a sentence over his shoulder like a stone: “And I’m twenty-five. Not a kid, old man.”
He’s gone before another word can be spoken. But he senses Nelson’s eyes on him as he goes.
The rumors about Piquet were true. It didn’t mean he didn’t like him any less.
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Tyrrell. British Grand Prix, 1989. Jean’s second race. He’d spun off. He’s still wiping the tears from his face when he returns to his motorhome in the evening. Gerhard has his arm slung over Jean’s shoulders as they escape from the crowds. They’re both sweaty and dirty with grim but neither has had a problem with a little mess before.
“Are you still crying?”, Gerhard jabs him in his side above his ribs.
“Non, arretez,” Jean tries to conceal his massive sigh of defeat.
“You’re too emotional.” Unquiting, Gerhard ruffles at his dark hair quickly which fans it all in front of Jean’s eyes. “Spinning off in only your second race, that’s pretty good…”
“Pretty?!”, Jean shouts, his mouth open, “It’d say it’s horrible!”
“We should get some celebratory champagne.”
“Why? Not like we got anything today.”
“You can celebrate your spin and I’ll drink away my own personal conquests.”
Jean rolls his eyes, his skin feels sore from rubbing his face too often. “You’re a drunk.”
“A happy one.”
Gerhard always was.
The night felt infinite.
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Nelson recognized something in you, didn’t he? Something that reminded him of someone else .
Around twelve, Jean stumbles himself towards his motorhome a little drunk. There’s a heavy feeling in his chest and sleep weighs at his eyelids. Just as before, Jean doesn’t recognize the man at first. Even more so, he doesn’t see Nelson because he’s acting so unlike any Nelson he’d ever heard of before. But it strikes his curiosity, that’s why he approaches him.
“What’re you doing here?”, Jean straightens his words but they still come out slurred.
Against the neighbouring motorhome, Nelson leans on his back. His eyes to the sky, he suddenly shifts them away at the sound of the younger man’s footsteps. A cigarette hangs lazily in between two fingers. “I have the same question for you,” he raises a brow to intimidate him but it seems inviting.
Jean points over his shoulder, “I’m living here.”
“I guess we’re neighbors then,” Nelson mocks, a cloud of smoke tumbles from his lips into the open air. There’s a hint of excitement in his tone as if he were thankful not to be alone. Nelson was always a man surrounded by as many people as possible. Always a man with a joke on his tongue or a prank up his sleeve. A man with curses aplenty and cares a few. That’s what Jean had heard.
“Why are you smoking?”
“What do you care?”, Nelson snaps. Sensing the hint of invitation from before, Jean leans in beside him and ignores his previous statement. His eyes trickle towards the heavens and it reminds him of the countryside in Auvignon. They slide shut and summer breeze rustles playfully at his hair.
“Keeping secrets?”
“I don’t smoke,” Nelson took a drag through his thin laps. The ember stood out against the dark sky.
“So, that’s not a cigarette.”
Nelson shrugged, “You know a little vice every now and again is a good thing. Don’t think I didn’t notice how you’re slurring your words.”
Jean can still taste the alcohol in his throat. At the end of the day, he’s never been particularly critical of himself. At least, not without reason. And himself he sees a someone with a blunt tongue and a quick wit. His mother always believed he cried too much but at the end of the day he is his father’s child. He can imagine them of his parents, cheering and hollering around the radio on the mantle all the way in little Auvignon.
Jean sees it too. Nelson observes him from the corner of his eye with a softness that Jean didn’t know he was capable of.
“Why do you keep watching me?”, Jean turns his head towards him but Nelson doesn’t pull his gaze away. It was as though he didn’t care to be caught.
He appears thoughtful. “You remind me of someone.”
“A friend?”, Jean respondes naively.
Out of place, Nelson throws his head back and admits a short but loud laugh. “A friend?” he shakes his head with a bitterness lacing his words. “We’re little more than strangers now, I think."
“What happened?”
“A good fuck doesn’t stay only a good fuck for long,” Nelson chuckles. There is a slowness to his movements, as though he were savoring every moment until sunrise.
“Are we strangers?”
The man looks to him again, his eyes falling over every inch of his body. But they stop on his eyes and Jean swallows hard. Nelson’s eyes were hazel but they could’ve been black as coals for all the stars the night reflected.
At the end of this long, hard gaze, he says only: “No, we’re not.”
Jean grins, “Cool.”
“Cool?”
“Cool.” Jean holds out his hand and Nelson gives him a firm handshake in return. “Then what specifically reminds you of this friend?”
And Nelson doesn’t pull his arm away and he places the cigarette to his lips once again. He shrugs, “I don’t know, maybe it’s just your accent.” There was something more perked on his tongue. In a soft movement, his hand slowly slid towards Jean's elbow.
Jean blames the alcohol, but he doesn’t move him away. He allows the touch to pull him closer until he could nearly taste smoke on his own lips. Without breaking eye contact, Jean stole the cigarette between Nelson’s fingers into his parted lips. And suddenly there’s a hunger. A hunger that wrote itself at the corners of Nelson’s eyes. Despite this, it’s Jean who leans towards him first. It’s Jean who swallows in his smoke like air. Jean whose head spins with thought and what he leaves unsaid:
I burn holes I can never fill .
Jean expected Nelson to shove him away, to punch him or spit in his face. But he doesn’t. Instead, Jean hankers something desperate in the way that Nelson touches him like he needs some small part of him. It feels vaguely sad, the way he doesn’t hesitate. A man of more years than his who knows:
I would live my life over again just to make the same unforgettable mistakes.
When they pull away for air, the coldness in Nelson’s eyes is gone and he shatters the distance once again within seconds. Jean scrapes his teeth over Nelson’s bottom lip. Fighting to regain control, Nelson grabs a fistful of dark hair, pulling Jean’s head back sharply. It makes Jean cry out, a moan dripping thickly past his lips.
“I’m in control,” Nelson hisses, he tugs on the hair again leaving the carve of Jean’s neck open and vulnerable. Jean opens his mouth and then closes it again with a quick nod of defeat and anticipation. “Good boy, no need to open your pretty little mouth again.”
Jean swallows hard and the only sound that leaves him is a shaky sigh. Maybe it’s because he’s young, but he feels like there’s a piece of something he’s missing. It’s like when your parents say, I’ll tell you when you’re older, but they never do. Eventually you find these pieces yourself. And he doesn’t want to run away. Nelson holds him like an object, speaks to him like a slut and it makes Jean feel somehow significant. I’m a part of something even I don’t understand . But Nelson’s lips on the column of his throat are sweet and sharp like melting glass. Jean’s eyes tumble to the sky above and he’s a teenager once again.
Do my eyes still sparkle like all that splendor above?
Jean doesn’t remember how he got into Nelson’s motorhome. It was a quick momentary lapse of shock but it hits him as his back pounds onto the mattress. He mumbles, “Where am I?”
“You’ve been here before,” Nelson huffs, sliding a hand across the line of his throat and ripping his shirt over his head.
“I haven’t.”
But Nelson isn’t speaking to him .
Jean is a child. A child who has to ask for a plate in the cabinet, a child whose father still has to teach him the names of the colors in the horizon. So he allows himself to be led like a sheep, played like a marionette in an unfamiliar room. The way that Nelson studies him is defenseless with greed--a toy in the hands of his own needs.
Nelson undresses him with speed, tossing his clothes onto the floor. The moonlight tracks like snow over the muscles of his bare arms. His heart, pounding like a drum in his ears warms the cool sweat dripping across his temple. Jean’s back is pushed onto the small bed, the crown of head bumping against the wall as he comes down. Nelson doesn’t hesitate, hoisting himself above him and fitting his body into a yet understood silhouette.
“You can get to it quicker,” Jean whispers, “I know what to do.”
Nelson’s hand clamps quickly over his mouth, “Don’t talk. Only say my name and nothing more.” His hand drags to the front of his legs where Jean’s cock lays already hard between his thighs. Jean admits a groan, somewhere mixed between pleasure and confusion, it ripples out.
“Nelson…”
“Louder than that,” Nelson spreads him farther, slipping his last remaining article of clothing away. Jean’s fingernails dig into the flesh of Nelson’s shoulders and he is embarrassed by how much he wants it. Nelson strokes him quickly as he kicks his pants onto the carpet and reaches down to touch himself.
“Do you want help?”, Jean feels stupid for asking.
“What’d I say about talking?”, Nelson growled. In protest, Jean buried his face into his neck, his teeth grazing at the rough skin of his shoulder blade. Something in the way that he touches him makes Jean crumble, his eyes falling to the stars out the window as they spun around with blue light. And Jean doesn’t make a sound.
Reaching over the edge of the bed, Nelson drags a bottle from his bag before preparing him with his fingers. The burn makes Jean flinch at the white pain radiating up his spine. But he moans, bucking his hips into Nelson’s palm eagerly. Jean squirms beneath his touch, sinking into the warm slosh in the pit of his stomach. And just as Jean doesn’t make a sound, Nelson’s eyes remain focused on his. When Nelson guides into him, it’s blunt and quick like the slice of a knife. Jean’s eyes prick with tears and he blinks them away as he curls a fist into the sheets of the bed. He whines, pitiful and almost weak with yearning.
Out of the blue Nelson asks: “This is okay, yes?”, Nelson’s voice sounds oddly concerned. He continues thrusting into him at a pace, the watch on his left wrist glistening in the light.
Jean nods, his mouth hanging open. And Nelson kisses him. Rough. Rough enough for Jean to taste a bit of blood through a tiny cut on his bottom lip. And Nelson’s searching for something, chasing a dream in every kiss, tumbling through the clouds towards something unreachable. Nelson rolls his hips, his breath is shallow and he draws his mouth away for a moment. A moment long enough to make Jean drag his chin towards him. He lays his palm flat on Nelson’s cheek, the pad of his thumb swiping softly over the line of his aquiline nose. Nelson shuts his eyes and leans his face into the interaction softly. His mouth presses into his palm. There’s an intimacy in it that Jean had never known before.
Jean can’t control himself. “Merde,” he pants.
Nelson pauses and Jean thinks he is going to be scolded again but instead he says, “Go on, talk to me.”
It’s your accent .
“J’aime cela,” his voice is high in the back of his throat. Nelson lets out a strangled growl, pushing farther into him and breathing heavily.
“More.”
“C’est si bon…”, Jean senses himself growing closer, heat coiling like hot ashes in his stomach.
“More…”
“Je savais que je te voulais au moment où je t'ai vu,” Nelson shudders beneath his fingertips.
“I’m close,” Nelson strokes Jean’s cock with his hand and he resists the urge to finish.
“Et je sais que tu me veux aussi…”
He finishes half on his stomach, half on the bed with Nelson forcing one final thrust before collapsing onto him.
“Oh…. Alain….”
Jean shakes the white noise from his ears, his chest heaving for air. Silence. Knots and electricity. The tension in the air washes away like sand on the shore. Nelson holds him tight with a hand on the back of his neck. Jean wipes the corners of his eyes, rubbing circles into the cusp of Nelson’s back. His face buried in the crook of his neck, Nelson eventually draws his head up and on seeing Jean’s face, his features widen.
Did you expect someone else?
Nelson draws away, there’s a sobering quality to him. The melancholy has returned to him once more.
“What?”, heat rises in Jean’s face, “Why’re you looking at me like that?”
Nelson perches himself on the end of the bed, swinging his feet slowly over the edge. He sinks his face into his hands but watches him through the cracks of his fingers. “You reminded me of someone,” he sighs. He looks dizzy.
Jean feels empty and exhausted. The energy of the previous day has left his soul. It’s late. In life you only get the same moment twice . Without being told, Jean slips from the bed and reaches for his clothes. “But you do know I’m not them,” he throws his shirt on, “You knew that without having to fuck me.”
Nelson doesn’t move. As he passes to leave Jean feels a hand rope off his wrist and tug him back. Their eyes meet. Nelson is below him on the bed with envy and hope mingling in all the colors of his iris. He lacks the control he so craves. They stare at one another for a long moment before Jean yanks his hand from his grasp and shuts the door behind him.
A few minutes later, he collapses on the couch on his motorhome. A headache swims behind his forehead. He plays his thoughts out on the ceiling. Two parts of himself arguing like always.
“Suis-je stupide?” Am I stupid?
“No, certo che no.” No of course I’m not .
The sound of his own voice brings him clarity. A bubble of emotion welling in his chest.
“ Je suis trop vieux pour me sentir idiot.” I’m too old to feel like an idiot .
Or, maybe.
“Sono troppo giovane per conoscerlo meglio.” I’m too young to know better.
A distant part of him feels hurt, and perhaps, it’s that part that Nelson sees above all.
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Jean thinks about Nelson all the way until the next race weekend. But when the week comes, he avoids him. The next time they see one another it’s midday on a Saturday. Jean approaches the parking lot and at the entrance Nelson stands pretending not to be waiting for him.
“What do you want?”, Jean raises a brow.
Nelson keeps his hands to himself. The late afternoon sun has turned his hair to amber. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”
“I remember you just a few weeks ago praising me for not caring what other people think,” he smirks, “And now you actually do?”
Nelson frowns, his usual demeanor is absent. In its place is an ambience of solemnity. “I like you, kid,” it sounded as if it took effort for him to say that.
“So?”, Jean says, “I knew what I was doing.”
“I don’t think you did,” but Nelson doesn’t patronize him he's being sympathetic.
“Look,” Jean flicks the hair out of his eyes, “I hope you don’t think you hurt me or something.”
Nelson scoffs, “I wouldn’t care if I did.”
“If you don’t, then why are you stalking me?”
“I’m not,” Nelson frowns, his thick brows stitching together, “I’m just making sure you’re not running around telling your little buddies about this.”
“Who? Gerhard?”
“Sure, whatever, him. Anyone. It’s none of their business.”
“You didn’t hurt me.”
“I know.”
“I have complete control over what I’m doing.”
“Or so you think,” there’s a sincerity in his approach as if he were giving himself advice from the past. “You may think you have control,” he jabs the center of his chest, “But none of us do. Got that?”
Bacialo; Kiss him .
Non, lui faire attendre; Make him wait.
Jean grins with a mock salute from his hand. “Any other demands you have of me?”
“Stop asking so many questions.”
“No. You’re being rude to me.”
Nelson has that same glint in his eye as before. The one Jean saw weeks ago. One that says: I know you somehow . Nelson waves him away, putting his cap on and starting towards his rental car, “Fine. Fuck if I care. Make the same mistakes as I did. I’ll see you around, kid.”
Jean watches him leave.
Inseguilo; Chase him .
Absolument pas; Absolutely not!
Nelson is almost out of sight.
Non ho niente da perdere; I don’t have anything to lose.
Mais, je ne devrais pas mettre mes émotions dans quelque chose que je ne comprends pas; But I shouldn’t put my emotions into something I don’t understand.
Jean has always listened to his Italian blood after all. He scampers into movement, trotting across the pavement. “Nelson!,” he calls. For a moment, the older man stops in his tracks and shoots a glance in his direction. “À qui dois-je tu rappeler?”, who do I remind you of? Judging by his expression, Nelson doesn’t understand a word of it.
“Let’s go,” Nelson gestures firmly. He appears somehow miserable behind his smile. He looks at Jean like he were a tragedy to come. And Jean follows without hesitation.
He spends the next hours in Nelson’s hotel room, his back pressed to the wall and bruises beginning to form on the cusp of his hips. He buries his fingers into Nelson’s hair, winding and twisting the curls around his knuckle. When Nelson finishes, he murmurs a name a thousand times over like a prayer:
“Alain…”
Jean rolls away onto his back. Nelson felt guilty enough to lower his mouth onto his cock for a few minutes until he was done. That familiar silence fills the hollow of the room once again as if it had its own breathing life of its own.
“What’s that name you’re always saying?”, Jean mutters breathlessly into the pillow.
“Let’s keep away from questions.”
“I thought we weren’t strangers.”
“We aren’t,” Nelson wipes the sweat from his forehead, “But you don’t have to be nosy about me.”
“I’m not being nosy,” Jean huffs, “It’s only a question.” Not receiving an answer, Jean moves to pick up his clothing from the floor.
Nelson perches himself up on an elbow, “You don’t have to do that.”
Jean snorts, “I have to sleep somewhere.”
“No, stupid,” Nelson gazes at him as if he deaf, “You don’t have to leave is what I mean.” Jean raises a brow in curiosity, placing his hands back on the bedspread and tossing a glance over his shoulder. “You should stay.”
It didn’t seem like a choice.
Jean falls asleep that night in arms that hold him like he’s second best. And he’s always wanted nothing more than to win.
Mi piace questo; I like this.