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In retrospect, Fabio should have seen it coming the moment Tony had started pacing on the deck, always brimming with that nervous, barely contained energy that’s almost exclusively his, even now that they’re supposed to relax before Mugello. Especially now, for some reason.
Under his sunglasses, Fabio looks at him change seventeen sitting positions in the span of six seconds, and he can’t help the fond smile curling his lips upwards. Tom says he looks utterly dumb when he stares at Tony with that languid, dreamy look, but he doesn’t really mind – sometimes, love makes you a little stupid, and Fabio is happy that he’s finally learning what it really means to feel so many butterflies flutter around his stomach at once everytime Tony… well. Breathes. Or walks. Or laughs. Or exists, in general.
Even if he’s nervous and pulled taut and hyperactive – just like him, but powered by an endless supply of lithium batteries that never seem to exhaust.
“Let’s do something,” Tony says at last, sprinting back to where Fabio is lazily sprawled under the sun and crawling on all fours until he’s practically on top of him, a mischievous grin splitting his sunkissed face in two. It’s hot and it’s afternoon, and Fabio really doesn’t want to do anything in particular, so he wraps his legs around Tony, throws him off balance, and catches him right before he smashes face first into his nose.
“Can’t we just cook in the sun a little more?”
Tony snorts, his plush lips curling into a displeased pout.
“But we’ve been here for hours,” he laments, excessively plaintive. Fabio chuckles: it’s been hardly thirty minutes, he’d argue, but he knows better than to start a war he can’t really win.
Slowly, he lets his fingertips trace the defined outlines of Tony’s muscular back, his skin warm and golden, smelling just like sea salt and sunscreen – he lets out a low, appreciative hum when Tony shivers, nuzzling his neck, wet lips parted against his pulse point.
“Anything in particular that comes to your mind?”
“First, that you’re a bastard,” Tony says, his voice already husky, sucking a small, delicate mark into Fabio’s throat.
“And second?”
“That you can’t keep me entertained with sex forever.”
Debatable, Fabio thinks with an amused snort. He’s sure he’s never had this much sex before. Not that he has ever had enough time to fuck around, but since Tony moved in, every excuse is good for a quickie – Fabio has nothing to complain about that. Having sex with Tony is sometimes so mind-blowing he finds himself wondering whether he’s dreaming it all, and if he’d eventually wake up, sweaty and with his heart pounding, to find out none of it was real. It’s bittersweet, but he thinks the same of his MotoGP career, at times.
What if you wake up to discover you haven’t achieved anything?
“Ah, I can’t? Watch me.”
Tony chuckles, lets himself be jostled until Fabio has flipped their positions, panting his knee between his thighs and smirking. Tony’s skin is hot and smooth, slick with sweat and ineffective SPF. He licks a long stripe from his chin to the hinge of his jaw and he tastes just like the sun that’s beating relentlessly over Cap d’Antibes; to be fair, he wouldn't do anything else all day long – just laze about and fuck, rinse and repeat. And maybe take the occasional swim, but only because the sun is unbearably brutal and the Mediterranean Sea is too beautiful not to indulge.
“What now?” Tony teases, bucking his hips. He’s getting hard in his tacky orange swimming trunks, impatiently squirming until Fabio hooks his fingers around the string and blindly undoes it, his touch lingering on purpose, finding the tip of his dick and drawing a playful line over it, making Tony hiss under his breath.
“I might have a couple ideas…”
“Be my guest.”
Saliva pools in Fabio’s mouth as he thinks about the implications of fucking on the deck of a yacht, in the middle of a sunny day, when potentially anybody could see them. Realistically, though, they’re too far from the shore and from any other boat for this to be risky, but there’s a peculiar thrill to it, an exhilarating sensation that makes all of his hair stand at attention and his breath hitch in the back of his chest while he slowly pulls Tony’s swimming trunks down, unveiling him like a birthday present, with slightly trembling hands and anticipation heavy in his stomach – as if he hasn’t seen Tony naked a million times, at this point.
But here’s another thing about love nobody has ever told him: there’s wonder in it, the slightly childish, intoxicating feeling of doing something for the first time even if you’ve done it again and again, never getting tired of it. Like starting his bike on the grid, or putting on his comfort movie on a winter night, Tony’s magazine-perfect beauty never ceases to amaze him.
He’s started waxing down there, recently. There’s only a small tuft of dark, trimmed hair framing the base of his pretty dick, standing straight and proud already, with veins bulging on the shaft and a lovely pink head, slick and juicy and inviting. Tony’s shoulders relax a fraction when they kiss, lips molding together perfectly in between delighted sighs.
“I want to suck your dick,” Fabio states, ripping a tiny sound out of him. Half a moan, half a laugh. They laugh a lot when they’re fucking, he has noticed, and it makes everything feel more natural, way less stilted than a Grindr hookup in strange hotel bedsheets. Fabio didn’t know sex could be funny before, but Tony seems to be particularly good at it, naturally inclined to play and joke around even when he’s buried inside Fabio to the hilt, sweaty from pleasure and exertion.
In the sunlight, the rings around Tony’s fingers flash – blinding gold and silver, all of them fished out of Fabio’s jewelry box at home, randomly chosen between the many gifted things he keeps and never wears. He shivers just so, his mouth trailing down Tony’s neck, over his jutting collarbones, finding his nipple and grazing at it, earning a full body twitch in response.
Then, he drags his teeth along the taut plane of Tony’s stomach before biting down, leaving an indented mark right next to his navel – he likes to be able to mark him, to leave a tangible proof of what they’ve done on his skin, something that will follow Tony wherever he’ll go. It gives him some weird, mismatched sense of peace. Sometimes, he bites even harder, to make sure it’ll take more than just 24 hours for his marks to disappear completely.
“Fuck, be gentle.”
Tony pulls his hair and smiles indulgently. Fabio lets out a small noise, like he’s got a stuffy nose. When it’s Tony who pulls his hair, it’s nice and slightly tingly, so he acts up until Tony pulls some more, but never actually tells him he likes it – communication-wise, they still have a long way to go.
“You want me to suck your dick gently?” He asks, squinting. He’s pulled his sunglasses up, but now they’ve probably fallen somewhere, and he doesn’t think it would be polite to fuck with his sunglasses still on. He kisses the tip of Tony’s dick like he would kiss his cheek, and chuckles when Tony snickers. “Like this?”
“Oh, fuck you.”
Suddenly, Fabio is taking it all in his mouth, and Tony isn’t complaining anymore. There’s always a rush to it, but Fabio loves it nonetheless, the adrenaline and the urge. The need to feel Tony down into his throat, to work around his dick until he’s just about to gag, toying the fine line between not enough and too much . And the way Tony grits his teeth not to get too loud too fast, his breath shallow, the air barely getting to his lungs – that hits like a slap, and Fabio’s sucked-in cheeks burn just the same.
It’s not hard to make Tony reach the edge like this, always teasing, teasing, his tongue drawing circles around the tip of his cock until he closes his mouth around it once more, gobbles it down, drools over his waxed balls and, finally, rips a high-pitched sound out of him – Tony’s mouth goes slack, glistening with spit, neon pink and sunburned.
From his odd point of view, Fabio can see the faint tan line of a necklace he hasn’t been wearing for the past couple of days, and it’s somehow one of the hottest things he’s ever seen. Tony’s face scrunches when he’s close, as if he’s eaten a sour candy. With one last practiced flick of his tongue, Fabio pulls away and smirks, almost bursting into laughter at how utterly offended Tony looks.
“You’re horrible,” he says, and he doesn’t mean half of it. He sounds positively out of breath, and something flutters in the pits of Fabio’s lower belly at that, his dick definitely appreciating the view.
“I’ll go fetch the lube,” he winks, but Tony is quick and strong, and soon enough he finds himself suffering the same fate he has forced Tony into; trapped between his arms, unbearably warm and painfully familiar, as he keeps panting loudly against his ear while groping around with his free hand, comically exaggerated.
“Ah. There it is!”
“What?”
“Your lube,” Tony states, showing Fabio a bottle of sunscreen. He even wiggles his brows like he’s had the best intuition of the whole century, which forces Fabio to let out the fit of laughter he was holding, a deflagration that echoes through the calanques of Cap d’Antibes like a detonating grenade.
“Are you serious?” He ends up asking, breathless.
“Ain’t no way I let you leave me here, you might fall asleep on the couch and I’d die of blue balls!”
“It never happened, come on…”
Tony shrugs, playful.
“But it could. And I love my balls, you know? So, if you love them too, don’t be picky.”
It sounds fair, all things considered. Beggars can’t be choosers. He could argue that he also loves his own ass, but he reckons that something so expensive as his dermatologically approved SPF cream must have been super tested, so it might even be safe as makeshift lube. At last, he hums in agreement, and Tony catches his face in a bruising grip, kissing all the air out of his lungs at once. Fabio thinks that it’s fun to fuck like this, with the loud calls of the seagulls and the sun cooking his skin while he shucks off his swimming trunks with ease, kicking them away gracelessly until he’s naked and splayed out, already shivering.
“Do you think it’s going to work?”
Tony chuckles, low and husky and terribly mischievous.
“There’s only one way to find out, no?”
Something inside Fabio gives way, and Tony kisses a choked whine out of him. Fabio is sure he’s never been fucked using sunscreen as lube, then he thinks that there are so many things he hadn’t done before Tony got in the picture. Being so suddenly aware of this - something big, almost monumental - makes him feel like he’s getting crushed on a supersonic rollercoaster, but in the most delightful way – Tony steals another kiss from his parted lips and Fabio can’t help but sigh, going boneless underneath him.
It’s a familiar dance, by now. He knows Tony’s calluses like his own, where the skin is marred and thick, and the contrasting softness of the tips of his fingers, nails manicured when he remembers not to pick at them. He knows the way Tony likes to do it; passionately, sometimes a little rushed, but never too rough or sadistically painful.
He squirts so much fucking sunscreen on his own fingers that they both end up chuckling at the comically large scoop of it that makes a wet, slapping noise as Tony rubs his hands, letting the skin soak, get slick and slippery, enough that his first, exploratory touches instantly send sparks of pleasure down Fabio’s tense thighs.
Tony is careful with him, almost zealous. Fabio has fucked with people that didn’t care enough about him to prepare him properly, but Tony is just – so terribly tender and thoughtful.
His breath quivers when Tony pushes past his lubed hole, long middle finger curling immediately against his sweet spot with frictionless ease; Fabio closes his eyes and the sun burns red through his eyelids, scalding hot, just like Tony’s body pressed against his own.
The yacht is still and Cap d’Antibes is a blurry, green line glued against the shifting horizon. Fabio bucks his hips, urging Tony to fuck him when the frustration becomes almost unbearable. The sensation of the sunscreen inside him, dribbling down the back of his thighs, is weird but not unpleasant, and his moans are a cacophony that escapes through the short gaps between one breathless kiss and another. Tony tastes of salt, Fabio can’t help but lick the same spot behind his ear again and again, ripping tiny groans out of him – if anybody saw them, they would probably stop and stare, Fabio thinks, because they’re just so fucking beautiful when they have sex. And he knows what he’s talking about, because they have a mirror on the ceiling at home, so he’s seen the way Tony’s back arches as he jerks his hips from any possible angle, and he’s stored the memory so well he couldn’t forget it even if he hit his head hard enough to forget about everything else. He wouldn’t remember his own name, only the wave of Tony’s back, the slope of his firm buttocks, the way the muscles in his thighs contract when he meets a little resistance and needs to push a little harder.
He says things in french, also. Things he can never take back and would rather die before taking back. Je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime. Tony answers in italian, but Fabio’s thoughts are already so fractured and he barely registers that, lost in the all-encompassing pleasure and the stifling heat making his blood rush faster and faster in his ears. He runs his thumb across Tony’s lower lip, bites there, softly. Je t’aime, he stutters again, je t’aime, until his throat feels as dry as sandpaper and there’s nothing else in the world except for Tony and him, interlocked, inextricable . Impossible to say where one begins and the other ends – just limbs twisting around each other, and fingers, and tongues.
Tony comes first, collapsing over him as Fabio, too, comes, cum and sunscreen making a mess out of them both. It’s a peaceful bliss, a five-minute break from Tony’s inexhaustible energy – he says “are we staying like this a while longer, please?” and he doesn’t even know which language he has picked, he just knows he doesn’t want to move just yet, holding a finally spent Tony against himself, breathing him in.
He knows they’ll have to clean up, at some point, both themselves and the deck, but for now he’s just happy to hear Tony mutter a faint “yes” against his collarbone.