Chapter Text
Part One: Prelude
Am I really going to- to do this?
Nigel glances down the empty corridor, heart hammering staccato in his chest, as Elio works the key in the lock of his hotel room door.
His palms are sweating, and he brushes them down the front of his white polo shirt, over the sides of his running shorts. He turns back to Elio, to try and gauge if his nerves are shared, but the Italian is hunched over the door handle and Nigel can't read much, nerves or anything else, just by looking at the back of his head.
He looks at it, though, all the same; Elio's fair hair is just about getting long enough to twist into soft curls behind his ears. The collar of his shirt is a little rumpled, from the night spent at the strike, and his broad shoulders move under the red material, as he twists the key in the lock. If he's nervous too, he isn't showing it.
His teammate had been the picture of innocence, as they walked together through the hotel lobby, smiling at the desk clerks and nodding at guests who recognised them. Nigel had stalked behind him, face hopelessly red, trying not to meet anyone's eyes, sure that everyone could guess what they were up to.
It's no wonder he's nervous; plenty of people from the paddock use this hotel. Anyone could come along and see them, stood out in the open like this. Nigel darts his head both ways again, down the corridor, but there's no-one around. It's just them. Standing on the threshold, in silence.
It wouldn't matter if someone did see them, Nigel tells himself. There's nothing out of the ordinary about him going into Elio's room. No-one would think anything of it. He's done it enough times before now. He's lost count, in fact, of the number of times he'd gone into one of Elio's rooms, in all the hotels they’ve stayed in together, as teammates. For all sorts of normal, innocuous reasons; to double check the time of whatever sponsor event they have to go to, or to wake Elio up, maybe, when they're going to be late for a practice session. To borrow silly little things; toothpaste or shaving foam or Elio's expensive aftershave, thoughtlessly wandering in, without knocking, Elio half-dressed or even sometimes still in bed.
He'd never thought twice about it, until now. Until the strike. Everything's different, now.
Yesterday morning, they'd still just been teammates, back together for the first time since winter break; quietly hopeful for the new car, the new season, in that way you only can be before the first race.
And then Niki Lauda had locked the entire grid up together, for his strike, whether they'd wanted to or not. They had spent the day bored, squabbling and sniping and joking amongst themselves, in a dingy hotel suite. There was a piano, in the far corner of the room, and when Elio sat down at it, late into the evening, Nigel had wondered what he was doing. Maybe he can do Chopsticks, or something.
And then Elio began to play.
Everything changed, for Nigel, in that moment.
Elio's music was something classical, something unknown, something sweet and soft and melancholy, and it was so familiar that it raised the hairs on Nigel's arms, and the back of his neck. It was like déjà vu, some eerie, uncanny sensation, the feeling of hearing a song for the first time and finding you know every note. He could only think, quite clearly: he's done this before, this moment. And so have I.
Something like a shiver passes through him, as he remembers it, stood in the empty corridor while Elio still fumbles with the key.
The silence of the room, as they gathered around the piano, to listen. The light, catching in Elio's hair. The glint of his cigarette. The delicate, deliberate movement of his fingers, caressing the keys.
Nigel had been transfixed, more than anything else, by his hands. He watched them press and stroke and sway, and idly wondered, about their texture. How did they feel? Were they callused, like his, from years of rough gloves and steering wheel blisters? Or did they need to be kept soft, to feel the music through them?
And then it had come, unbidden, into his mind. What it would feel like, to take one of Elio's clever, beautiful hands in his. To raise it, to bring it to his lips and kiss it and feel it, that delicacy, against his mouth. And to taste him too, his lips, the cigarette smoke on his tongue, to press into him harder and harder until their lips shared the colour of his desire.
He was dizzy with it; the secret, undeniable ache, as the other drivers stood around him, listening politely to the music. He sat quiet in the darkness, folded in on himself, afraid of the implications. It's not like he'd... ever thought about a man, any man, in that way before. Where had this come from?
Elio had finished his performance, and he blushed, as the room applauded him. He looked up, through the darkness and crowd of bodies, and he met eyes with Nigel, for a beat. There was some frisson of understanding in that gaze, some strange harmony, as if Elio knew exactly what he had been thinking. Nigel felt himself blush, too.
Terrifying as it was, there was no denying it. He was completely certain of it. He wanted Elio. He was certain, too, that he had to do something about it.
Not much later he had kissed Elio, outside on the dark balcony, while the others were getting ready for sleep. It had been all speed and nerves, that first kiss; urgency getting the better of his thoughts of slow seduction. He'd kissed him hard and pulled back quickly, crouched like a rabbit ready to spring away from rejection.
Elio had blinked at him, in the moonlight, lips pursed and shining. He looked confused, for a moment, and Nigel had been prepared to flee, out of the hotel, out of the country, out of Formula One for good-
And then Elio had smiled.
Oh-
And then he had kissed him back.
This time it was slow, and patient, and sweeter than the music. They kissed, over and over and over, and broke away to laugh in breathless wonder at the revelation of it, mouths inches apart.
And that was all they did, at the strike. Just kiss.
They hadn't said anything about it, the next morning; they'd just gone back to the track, and murmured sheepish apologies to Colin, for joining the strike, and qualified the cars like it was a normal day at a racetrack.
Nigel had convinced himself, by late afternoon, that Elio wanted to forget it. All their conversation, throughout the day, was polite and careful and business-like; what set up do you prefer? The soft springs, or hard? The tyre pressures are too low, do you agree? They had muttered phrases of that sort to each other, without meeting eyes. It must have been cabin fever, what had happened; a by-product of them all locked up together. It was for the best, Nigel told himself, and tried to ignore the disappointment plucking at his heart.
And then, after qualifying, they'd changed out of their overalls, back to back, in the scant privacy of the motorhome. They had done it hundreds of times over the last two years, at tests and at races, and barely paid any mind to it. But it was the first time they found themselves alone since the balcony, the night before. Nigel faced away, and felt himself redden every time he caught a glimpse of olive skin across Elio's back, the dark hairs curling up the inside of his thigh.
After they were dressed, they were left in a sharp, inelegant silence. Elio cleared his throat to break it. Nigel turned to face him, nerves jangling. This is where he tells you he's not interested.
"Do you need a lift? Back to the hotel?" Elio asked, instead, and Nigel's stomach flipped.
He didn't. He had a hire car to use himself. That's very kind, but no, thanks, was the correct answer.
But it was not what Elio was asking, and they both knew it.
"Yeah. Ok." He swallowed. "Please."
Elio grinned. He leaned forward, and pressed a brief kiss to Nigel's cheek, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. For a moment Nigel could hear the music of the previous night again, echoing inside the empty motorhome like a secret symphony.
It hadn't taken long to get from there to here. Nigel, heart pounding, stood in a pleasant, anonymous hotel hallway, watching as Elio unlocks the door to his room.
He doesn't know what will happen, on the other side of the door, because this is all brand new. It's uncharted territory; the blank space at the edge of a page that he's never let himself pencil in before, never allowed himself any curiosity towards what lies out here...
And equally, he knows exactly what will happen, because he's not as naïve as all that.
The key clicks in the lock.
Am I really going to do this?
Elio pushes the door open.
Yes. I am.
We are.
Part Two: Overture
Behind the door, the room is in half-light; two inches of space between the curtains letting evening sunlight spill across the carpet in a narrow beam. Elio's room is just like his, more or less, down the hall; a bed, a closet, a desk with an ashtray and pens and neat hotel notepaper. There is a chest of drawers, beside the bed, that Nigel knows is empty, because Elio's suitcase lies open before it, trailing a mess of clothes onto the floor. Another door, ajar, leads to the bathroom. Tasteless art hangs above the bed's headboard, something red and swirling and abstract, the kind you can read any image you like into. Dots that might be eyes. A unison of shapes, that might be butterfly wings, or wrestling bodies. Nigel swallows.
He hears Elio push the door closed, behind them. The Italian speaks.
"Do you want...?"
A drink? To freshen up? To reconsider, what we are doing?
He doesn't let Elio finish the question, because there's only one thing he wants, now.
He turns, and sees Elio's eyes widen, as he reaches to grip his waist, pulls him forward, and then Nigel is kissing him, for only the second time. If Elio is surprised by his boldness, he doesn't show it for long; Nigel feels him lean forwards, lean in to the embrace, and Elio tilts his head to deepen their kiss. An arm winds around his waist, a hand tangles into his hair and he runs his tongue against Elio's, in approval.
He moves forward, without breaking the kiss, steering Elio across the floor until they come to a stop, sudden, and it's because they're up against the wall, and he keeps moving there, pressing the length of his body against the Italian's, keeping him pinned back against the hard surface. Nigel is so hungry, for Elio's mouth, his lips and his tongue and the taste of him, that he can barely think straight, can barely breathe.
He breaks away, panting, and the air between their open mouths is so hot. "I've never done this before," he murmurs, and presses forward to find Elio's lips again, "never."
He is waiting for the Italian to say me neither but instead Elio laughs, when he pulls back to take a breath. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah. Really." Nigel pants. He cups Elio's face in one hand, while he runs the other down his chest, between their close bodies, and clutches at his waist, bunching the material of the red shirt in his fingers and feeling the warm solid muscles of his belly underneath. "I dunno what I'm doing."
Elio laughs again. He is breathless, too. "That's alright. I know what I would like to do," he turns his head, and presses lips briefly against the hand still cupping his face, and adds, in a sweet murmur, "if it's ok?"
"What's that?" He replies, knowing it doesn't matter. Elio can do whatever he likes to him, at this point. There had been a moment, not very long ago, where Nigel felt like he was in charge of this situation. He certainly intended to be, when they came in. It's rapidly ebbing away, that feeling. Somehow he's missed a step, in this dance, and Elio has spun them around and taken the lead of it instead. Nigel's not sure he minds.
Elio kisses him again, softly, then breaks away to whisper in his ear. "I would like to touch you." He trails fingertips for a few inches, up Nigel's thigh, stopping just before the hem of his shorts. "Would you like that?"
Elio's breath is gentle against his ear, and it sends a tingling, tickling feeling down his neck. He is panting more, now. He's already half-hard, in those silly white shorts, and squirming anticipation sits low inside him. He nods.
Elio cups him, suddenly, through the shorts, and his mouth is very close again and Nigel can only see the flash of his white, even teeth, as he grins. "These are very short. I never really noticed, before. Today, I found them... distracting."
Nigel giggles, involuntarily, and his heart is drumming in his ears and he's still giggling when Elio begins to move his hand, slowly and deliberately stroking over the thin material. He keeps doing that, teasing and teasing until Nigel is thrusting forward in growing desperation and the shorts are becoming uncomfortably, distractingly tight-
Elio kisses him, deeply, and suddenly takes his hand away. He steps away, retreating towards the bed, and Nigel lets out an undignified whimper at being left high and dry.
Elio reaches the bed and sits, slowly, on the end of it. He looks back at Nigel, a hint of pout on his lips. There is an invitation, in his eyes. He stretches out a palm, face up. Come here.
Nigel is still panting, leant back against the wall. He is conscious of the obviousness of his arousal; he can practically see the tent in his shorts out of the edge of his vision. It's like he's regressed to being some horny adolescent, a few fucking quick touches almost enough to bring him off. He knows Elio is looking too, he can feel his dark eyes on him. It fills him with a feeling that is hard to name; something with heat in it, and desire, and a gentle luxurious humiliation. Look what you did to me.
He pushes himself away from the wall, and steps forward, to where Elio waits. He runs his fingers over the outstretched palm, and Elio grins, and grasps his hand, pulling him down to sit beside him, on the edge of the bed.
"That's better." Elio murmurs, when he's settled. They kiss, again. Teeth nip, briefly, at Nigel's lower lip, and he feels fingertips slip into the warmth between his thighs. Elio trails his fingers up, and up, and over the shorts again, only allowing a brief teasing squeeze against his hard-on, this time. The fingers come to rest on his waistband.
"Can I touch you, like this? Underneath?"
"Yeah. Yes."
"You want me to?" Elio is fucking toying with him, now, and it's just making him harder. "You want my hand on your cock?"
"Ah, fuck," he can't help a low, needy whine, "you know I do."
Fingertips pull back the elastic of the waistband, and dip down behind it, and they're so warm and so close to where he wants them and Nigel grinds up just a little and then Elio is sliding his whole hand underneath the material, and he kisses him again slowly, so slowly, as he wraps his warm fingers around him.
The feeling of skin on skin, finally, is delicious and he gasps into Elio's mouth. His head is swimming. There's nothing in the world now, except for the feel of Elio's hand on him, the pressure of his fingertips, the wetness already leaking from him and coating Elio's palm in slick heat.
It does not take long to discover there's a slight problem, however, like this. Elio can hold him, but the shorts are too restrictive for him to move his hand much further. He tries to keep stroking, as Nigel tries to help by rolling his hips, and it doesn't work at all, and they break apart from their kiss in sudden, giggling frustration. Nigel meets Elio's gaze, for a moment, and the Italian's eyes are bright, cheeks flushed, a lopsided grin of embarrassment spreading over his face. He drops his head, laughing softly, fair hair falling into his eyes. It's so endearing, so unmistakeably Elio, that Nigel can't help a soft smile in return. He wraps fingers around Elio's wrist, stopping the awkward action of his hand, and gently slides it back out from under his shorts.
Elio gives him a questioning look, at being stopped, and in a flash of boldness Nigel answers it by raising his hips off the bed, and jerking the shorts down in a quick, clumsy motion. It's thrilling, to be exposed; Elio makes a show of looking at him, biting a lip, raising flirtatious eyebrows. Nigel guesses this is maybe what it feels like to be one of those topless girls, in a magazine, but of course it’s rather the opposite of being topless.
When he sits back down, the cotton bedsheets are warm against his bare skin and he's so fucking hard he feels lightheaded. Look what you did to me.
Elio meets his eyes, his intention clear. Nigel does not look away as he slowly reaches to wrap a hand around him again. It was good before, that hand under his shorts, but now Elio is free to move as he wants it's bliss.
He sets a different pace than Nigel would use on himself, a quicker rhythm, his hand sliding easily over the slick skin. Nigel watches, mouth open, eyes half lidded; he is thinking of Elio's fingers on the keys of the piano the night before and how they're just as clever and as beautiful now, in this action, and he can hear himself gasping.
He puts his face into Elio's neck, and revels in the scent that is so distinctively him; aftershave and tobacco and his warm skin. Elio cups his free hand around the back of Nigel's head, holding him in an almost protective gesture, as he continues stroking with his other hand. He kisses Nigel under his ear, down the line of his jaw and murmurs "Is that good, is that good Mansueto?" against his skin, the old nickname he gave him, when Nigel was just the shy Lotus test-driver, and Nigel nods because he can no longer form words but yes God it is good, it's absolutely perfect and a low heat is prickling in his belly and he's going to-
There is a final moment of clarity, just one thought, which is fuck, Elio is going to make me come, and then he is spinning off the edge. He moans into Elio's neck and shudders as his climax rises through him and then there's nothing but white behind his eyelids and heat everywhere else.
Look what you did to me.
Elio keeps stroking him through it, through the waves of it, all the time whispering "I know, that's it, that's it," almost as if he is taking as much pleasure from it as Nigel is.
Gently, slowly, his hand comes to a stop.
Nigel stays slumped into his neck. He nuzzles a weak kiss against Elio's throat, because he doesn't have the energy to move his face away. He can't even lift his head.
"Ok?" Elio asks and Nigel feels the question vibrating in his throat, onto his lips.
"Hhm."
"You sure?" Elio laughs.
With not inconsiderable effort, Nigel pulls away. "Christ. No. Fucking hell."
He opens his eyes, and sees he has made a mess of Elio's shirt. He would have blushed, if his face wasn't already burning red.
"Oh shit, sorry." He mumbles and Elio's eyes crinkle.
"That's ok." His teammate laughs softly. He begins to unbutton the shirt, and pulls it off, up and over his head. Without ceremony, he uses it to wipe Nigel clean and Nigel breathes a laugh, ticklish and needy from the overstimulation.
Elio stops, after a little while, and sits back. Nigel can't keep his eyes from running over the Italian's bare chest. He's always thought Elio handsome, ever since he's known him, even in the early days when the thought was only objective; a sort of old Hollywood glamour clings to him, with his golden skin and his cupid's bow lips and that beautiful Roman nose. (He huffs a laugh, now, at the notion those thoughts were objective. Who was I kidding?)
But in his post orgasmic haze, Nigel can look at him and admit how fucking sexy he is, too; all those sports he's effortlessly good at have left him lean, dark hairs curl across his broad chest, curves of muscle show on his abdomen as he twists to throw the shirt on the floor, down the side of the bed.
His eyes skip lower, for a moment. He can't miss the bulge in Elio's jeans.
"Do you want me to..." He says, and gestures in the direction of Elio's lap. He feels a blushing inability to say it, despite what Elio had just done for him.
Elio turns back to him and grins, and drops his eyes. "Yeah. I would like that. I mean, if you want to. You don't have to. I don't mind."
Elio would say that, Elio would bring him off and expect nothing in return but despite the newness of the situation, despite his inexperience Nigel won't have that. There had only been one thing he wanted, when they came in the room. He hasn't had it yet. Maybe Elio thinks he has, but he hasn't. There are men like that, he knows, who only care about their own pleasure. He's not one of them.
He reaches into Elio's lap, and starts to unbutton his jeans. His hands feel two times too big for the task; even if it's what he wants, he's still nervous, but after a few fumbling moments he manages it. Meanwhile, Elio slides his fingers under the hem of Nigel's polo shirt, already half-ridden up his abdomen, and lifts it up. Nigel raises his arms, to help take it off, but the collar is still buttoned and it snags around his head, and that brings more giggling from him and soft laughter from the Italian. He feels the bed shift as Elio stands, and then strong hands are pulling him to his feet.
Nigel stands across from him, at the foot of the bed, and starts to undress. He kicks off his running shoes, shimmies the shorts down from where they were bunched mid-thigh, and unbuttons the collar of the shirt to pull over his head. He looks up, and he sees Elio before him.
There is a line of hair that travels from the Italian's chest, down over his golden stomach, and the jeans Nigel unbuttoned moments ago allow a glimpse of where the trail leads to, running under his briefs. Elio steps out of his jeans, and starts to take off his underwear. Nigel can't look away.
Oh. Oh fuck.
It's one thing to get changed in front of him, even to be bloody stroked off by him, but it's another thing altogether to see Elio naked, completely, and to look at his body openly. He's never let himself look, not really; not in the motorhome, not in hotel rooms with Elio still in bed, because you don't do that with another man. Not unless you want to get yourself beat up. Not unless you're looking for trouble. Not unless...
Nigel thinks, quite suddenly, unless what? Unless, he is certain, can fuck off.
He looks, and he keeps looking. It's barely been minutes since he climaxed, but Nigel looks at Elio and the desire is no less in him.
Elio is gorgeous. His stomach, the small curve of his waist, the dimples that sit just under his hipbones, and - Nigel feels a blush at the thought, but thinks it anyway - his beautiful hard cock.
There's a slight relief too, in some small recess of his ego, because he can't help making a mental comparison. Thank god we're more or less the same size.
Elio's already faster than him (he can admit it, in his heart of hearts). If he'd had a bigger cock, too, it would have been decidedly fucking unfair.
Elio notices him looking. A high colour is in his cheeks, that lopsided smile on his mouth again.
"You like?" He looks amused, but there is a unmistakable note of shyness to that smile. One hand rubs behind his neck.
How to answer that? Elio is so exquisitely, unbelievably beautiful. Nigel has no idea how to tell him so.
He doesn't say anything. Instead, he closes the space in between them, and places one hand on Elio's hip, and tilts his chin up with the other and kisses him softly.
"Yeah," he breathes, "I like."
He trails his fingers down from Elio's hip, running fingertips across the lower edge of his stomach, before letting his hand descend to ghost over Elio's cock, so close he can feel the heat of it but just distant enough to make Elio wait.
Elio makes a noise caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan. Nigel is sure his own expression must be pure wickedness, but he doesn’t care. It's his turn to tease, now.
He sits down on the bed again, and Elio pouts, and then Nigel grins up at him. He stretches up a hand, and this time pulls Elio down beside him. That's enough teasing.
"Show me what you like." He whispers, and Elio doesn't hesitate to do so. He reaches and takes Nigel's wrist, and guides his hand onto him.
It's only strange for a moment, the feel of Elio against his palm, the silky warmth that could easily be his hand on himself if not for the angle, his wrist tilting the wrong way.
Elio wraps his hand over Nigel's, and begins to move, to show the speed he wants. Under it, Nigel starts to work his fist back and forth to match his rhythm.
There is a soft exhalation; Nigel looks up to see Elio with eyes closed, a bitten lip, a slight tension in his face. He presses a kiss to the corner of Elio's mouth; Elio turns his head and quite suddenly it turns passionate and open-mouthed, five of Elio's fingers tangle in his hair, his tongue slides against Nigel's. It's enough to bring him to half-hardness again but he ignores that for the time being, he keeps rolling his fist under Elio's hand, letting himself be guided by the movement the Italian wants.
They keep kissing and when Nigel tries to pull back to gasp for air Elio makes a pleading noise. "No, no, kiss me, I like that."
They meet eyes for a moment and Elio, already, looks on the verge of being undone; his pupils are blown wide, a frown of pleasure across his face. "I want to kiss you when I-"
Nigel almost slams his mouth back to Elio's. It's just as arousing to do this, somehow, as having it done to him; there is a delight in knowing he's having this effect on Elio, he's causing his hips to thrust raggedly upwards, he's making him moan like that in the back of his throat.
Elio takes his guiding hand away, now grasping both hands at the back of Nigel's neck. Nigel is setting the pace now and he is relentless. He keeps palming the length of him in long slow motions, over and over, until he feels Elio swell in his hand and Elio moans into his mouth, soft breathy exhalations of ah, ah, yes, as he comes.
There is a tremulous silence, for long moments. They rest their foreheads together. He lets his eyes flutter to a close, and at once everything else is heightened; the noise of Elio's wild, slowing gasps, the warmth of his skin and his mouth and his breath against Nigel's, the trembling of his fingers as they untangle from his hair.
Elio presses a final languid, liquid kiss to Nigel's lips and pulls away, sinking back onto the bed. He breathes bursts of rapid Italian to himself, as he regains his faculties, and brushes a hand through his hair.
Nigel can't stop grinning. "Good?"
Elio nods slowly, gazing back through dark eyelashes.
Nigel fumbles on the floor for Elio's red shirt, and uses it to clean his stomach, and Elio's. The Italian laughs, and tries to squirm away as he does so, and Nigel feels a warmth within himself, a burning feeling that is not lust, but a different kind of heat; softer and calmer and somehow more intense.
When he has finished, Elio gestures, lazily, for Nigel to lie next to him. Nigel hesitates, for the first time since he entered the room. He knows he probably shouldn't stay. They've got away with this, so far, but spending the night, and still keeping it secret, is probably too much of an ask.
But Elio's eyebrows raise slightly in a silent plea and Nigel relents, immediately.
"Alright. Just for a little bit. Then I really should go."
"Mm. Just for a little bit." Elio agrees, with a yawn.
He hitches himself up the bed, and stretches out beside the Italian, while Elio fusses with the bedsheets, trying to drag them with one arm over the pair of them. The sheets are still mostly tucked in, and weighed down underneath their bodies, so Elio gives up, with a sleepy laugh, and leaves the blankets as best he can, in a sort of messy cocoon around them.
Within their warmth, Elio pulls him to his chest, tangles their legs together and makes a noise of contentment through his nose.
Nigel nuzzles against his neck, again. Elio's breathing is already slowing, deepening, as he drifts into sleep. Nigel wraps an arm across Elio's chest, inhales the scent of his warm skin, and promises himself he will only close his eyes for five minutes. Then he'll go...
Part Three: Coda
Nigel stirs, from a dream he soon finds he can't remember. Maybe there was music, in it, but the sense of it is fading fast, as he wakes up. It felt like it was a good dream, anyway.
Sunlight blares over the bed, hot and bright, from between the gap in the curtains. That must be what woke him. He rubs an eye, lifts himself out from under the sheets, and stares around the room. He blinks, in groggy confusion, and for a moment wonders if he's still dreaming.
Everything is... odd. It's all reversed, the bed and the window and everything, it's all on the wrong side to where it should be-
A warm body brushes against him, under the softness of the blanket, and Nigel remembers, all at once.
It's Elio's room. Elio's bed. Elio, warm beside him.
Oh. So much for staying for just a little bit.
From under the sheet, he wriggles an arm free, the one with the wristwatch on it. He moves it with caution, so as not to disturb Elio, and checks the time.
It's ok. It's still early.
There's a lot to process, this morning, but despite everything else he hasn't forgotten they've got a Grand Prix to drive in, later on. At least there's plenty of time before they need to leave. He suppresses a slightly hysterical giggle, at the thought of them oversleeping, and Colin sending someone to wake them up. Thank the lord I'm an early riser.
Elio rolls over, beside him, and wraps an arm, and a leg over him, and he stays as still as he can. He's not trapped, not quite, but if he wants to get up he will wake Elio for sure, and there is a part of him that can't bear to do that.
This is all brand new, still, and he doesn't want to get ahead of himself. Who knows, maybe Elio will throw him out the door as soon as he wakes up?
But he'd be lying if he said he didn't want to stay here as long as possible; to share in this heat, to watch the sleepy peace on Elio's face and listen to the steady cadence of his breathing, to feel the ticklish brush of hair in the place where Elio's thigh rests against his.
(There is another part of him, too, that is certainly enjoying their proximity, and he feels a blush forming in the hollows of his cheeks at the soft desire rising in him again, so early in the morning.)
"Watching me sleep?" Elio says, without opening his eyes, and Nigel twitches in alarm. "I always knew you were a secret romantic."
"You bugger." He laughs, after his heart has stopped pounding. "You could've said you were awake."
Elio blinks his eyes open, a few times, and shrugs with one shoulder. "So you were watching me sleep."
"I wasn't watching you sleep," he grins, "I just... happened to be looking. While you had your eyes closed."
"Oh, sure." Elio gives a knowing smile, and then he tilts his face up, to catch Nigel's mouth with his own. It's so natural, the kiss, as if they've been doing this for years, instead of barely a day. So much for throwing me out the door.
He's happy to stay like that, lost in sleepy kisses, but Elio pulls back, laughing softly, and scrunching his nose.
"That may take some getting used to, you know. A moustache is still new for me." He smiles, and brushes a thumb against it. Nigel twitches a smile back, to share the joke, but something is nagging inside him.
"Is it?"
They'd glossed over the subject, the night before, but he has to ask. He doesn't want to spoil the gentle comfort of their pillow talk, but the need to know is too much.
"I mean, I meant it last night, when I said I'd never done any of this before. With another, y'know... man." He can feel the heat spreading over his face, as he meets Elio's eyes. "But... have you?"
Elio looks back at him, levelly. "Yes. I have."
There is a beat of silence, and Elio speaks again. "Does that change your opinion of me?"
"No. Course not." He is taken aback to be asked. "But. I just wouldn't have thought it. I've seen you with girls. You're so..." Elio looks at him, expectant, and he trails off. "I mean, you could have any girl you want."
Elio gives a little exhalation, and drops his eyes. "Perhaps. And I do like girls, for the most part. But, sometimes, yes. There is part of me that likes men too. There is an attraction, I can't deny it."
"Oh. So, have you... with a lot? Of men?" Maybe he's getting a bit too personal, now, but it's hard not to, while they are nestled together, arms and legs intertwined.
Elio frowns. "No."
He doesn't offer more than that. Nigel knows he is getting close to ruining this, but can't stop pushing.
"When did you... first know?"
"When did you first know you wanted me?" The response is pointed, Elio's nostrils even flare a little. Nigel answers quite honestly, in the hope that Elio can see he's not meaning to be rude.
"While you were playing. For us all, the other night." He murmurs. "It was really nice, the music. Beautiful, you know. I kept watching your hands and I just thought... I wanted to kiss you. A brand new feeling." He grins, and Elio's eyes soften. "I wasn't meaning to offend you. I was just... curious."
The Italian only breathes, for several seconds, and then smiles again. "I was surprised, really, when you kissed me. I didn't think you felt like that."
"Well. I didn't. Up until then."
"Hm." Elio only smiles. "Well. The first for me... That was a long time ago. There was a boy, who I was at school with. A friend. We used to kiss each other, and say it was because we were practicing for girls. But I liked kissing him, really." Elio's eyelashes flutter down against his cheeks. "And then, when we were older, we would do this. Things like this."
Nigel knows it's ridiculous, to feel jealous, when he pushed for an answer, and when he and Elio are only in the first flushes of whatever they're doing. But he can't help it. He sees Elio, in his mind's eye, with some imaginary, beautiful Roman youth, all feline grace and rolled-up cigarettes, and there is a stab of possession in his stomach.
"Oh. Right."
"There haven't been many others. And I was never involved with anyone in Formula One," Elio says, as if he can sense Nigel's insecurity. "It was mainly when I was younger. I didn't think it would happen again. Just one of those moments you go through, like," he smiles, "an experiment, I suppose. But I'm glad it happened again, now. Here. I'm glad you wanted to. I liked it very much."
Nigel can't lie. "Me too."
"I always had a bit of a crush on you, I suppose." Elio's eyes twinkle.
"On me?" He can't help a chuckle, at that.
"Of course. That strange parallel; so macho, so masculine," Elio traces knuckles over a bicep, and brushes Nigel's moustache again, "but you were always so shy, when you first came to Lotus. You blushed every time I talked to you."
"You were the big star driver." Nigel grins. "Who wouldn't be shy?"
"Hm. That's where mansueto came from, you know. That's what the poets say, for someone shy, and gentle and lovely."
God, Elio.
There's nothing else to say, to that. He pulls Elio to him, and then they kiss, and kiss, and kiss again.
Elio pulls back, by inches. "Mm. What time is it?"
"Still early." He insists. "There's time, yet."
"Perhaps I will go back to sleep, then..." Elio laughs, even as everything is speeding up, their hands and their mouths and the hard heat between them, under the blankets. Before he's lost to it completely, Nigel grins in return. "Don't."
How strange, to remember his anxiety outside the door, last night. There's none of it left within him, now. Only desire, soft and sweet and certain.
Between the warmth of their bodies, he wraps his fingers around Elio again. "Don’t you dare."