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The door of the Aprilia changing rooms opens and closes and Bez, still in his leathers and terribly sore, almost doesn’t realize someone’s gotten in until his weary eyes meet Sava’s – he’s smiling, soft and kind and impossibly sweet, and Bez’s knees feel wobbly for a second.
“Hey. I brought bruise cream,” he says, showing him a tube of 10% trometamine gel, his look kind of victorious, as if he’s stolen it directly from the infirmary and didn’t get caught.
That’s how it probably went, knowing him. Bez doesn’t know whether to blush like a schoolgirl or just scream internally, like he always does when Sava is affectionate enough with him to give him hope.
Hope is a weird thing to harbor, in their line of work, anyway. There are a few girls in the paddock, and in a world full of dudes it’s hard to tell who is into other guys and who isn’t, especially since whoever is tends to be in the closet, or not so open to discuss his sexuality with a colleague. Besides, shooting your shot when you’ve got cameras shoved in your face 24/7 isn’t a viable option, not when you can’t be that sure you’ll be…understood, if anything. Sava doesn’t strike him as a rageful homophobe, but one can never be sure; for his own sanity, Bez has wisely chosen to believe Sava simply isn’t into guys, and he’s fairly content with snatching as many tender attentions as he can from him without making it look like he’d gladly suck his dick if Sava asked him.
Which hasn’t happened so far, by the way, reinforcing Bez’s assumption: Sava doesn’t like guys, and that’s fine, he can definitely live with that.
On a night in which he was particularly drunk and particularly whiny, Celestino has told him he thinks too much. That he should just go for it now that Jorge is still out and won’t be back until next season. Bez has shrugged it off, said he would consider his options, but the truth is that he’s too afraid to fuck everything up big time to actually do something.
And again, Sava has seen him naked or half naked so many times he should have already pinned him to the wall, if he was into guys. Which means he isn’t into guys, full stop.
Anyway, he does appreciate Sava’s zeal. Jorge would have never brought him a tube of bruise cream – if he thinks about it, nobody has ever done something so sweet for him after a crash, and that speaks fucking volumes.
His lips curl in a small, tired smile as he reaches for the tube, grateful for the leathers that provide him a bit of protection against the flush threatening to rise to his ears.
“Thanks. I haven’t seen my physio yet, and it hurts like hell,” he offers, only half joking. Sava clicks his tongue, shaking his head.
“Fuck the gravel, honestly. Next time what? They’re going to replace it with glass shards? I bet we won’t be able to tell the difference…”
Now Bez laughs, even if the bruises on his back are biting into his flesh like fangs, the pain lancing, sharp, spreading all the way up to his left shoulder and down to his calf. He hasn’t surveyed the damage yet, but he’s sure it’s a thing to behold already. He’s got sensitive skin, so he bruises easily.
For some reason, Sava knows, and Bez doesn’t remember telling him.
“Knives, maybe,” he quips. Sava licks his lips, and the sight of his pink tongue sweeping over his lower lip feels just like a punch to Bez’s groin.
“Let me help you, come on. I saw your crash on the big screen in the garage, and it looked painful even without zooming in. Massimo said you didn’t want to get to the medical center, but you must hurt all over…”
Bez short circuits for a solid second.
Yes, he is hurting all over, so much that even sitting isn’t an option, but he could, theoretically, take care of his own bruises without inconveniencing anybody else. And still, Sava seems so determined to do the dirty job it almost feels insulting not to let him. Which poses, so to say, a problem or two: he’ll need to get down to his boxers, for one, and it would be terribly difficult to hide a semi if he’s half naked. Also, most of his bruising is on his thighs, and Sava will need to crouch down to apply the bruising cream where Bez needs it.
Hey Siri, how fucked I’ll be if I get hard?
“Oh. Yeah, uh, it’s just. Nothing to be concerned about, no? I’m not limping or anything,” he stutters, trying to buy himself a little time. Sava, though, is not having it, and he’s quick to undo the rest of Bez’s zipper, as efficient as always and eager to help.
“Not limping or anything, but you can’t aggravate your back anyway, so…may I?”
The tube of medicated cream looks tiny inside Sava’s massive hand. With a sigh, Bez nods, letting him peel the leathers off his shoulders and hips, keeping his gaze trained on a dark spot on the wall so that he doesn’t stare at Sava as he crouches down, tugs at the leathers until they slip down his calves, leaving him far too exposed in his leggings and top, almost as raw as a nerve ending struck with an electric prod. It’s stupid, really. It’s not like he’s naked and mooing on his fours or anything, but it feels kind of worse than that – he’s flustered, his heart beating in his wrists just like the first time he’s had a dude giving him a blowjob in the parking lot of a club in Riccione and he really didn’t know what to expect.
Having Sava tenderly coaxing him into getting undressed is, to some extent, far more intimate than having his dick sucked by a stranger.
“I’ll have to…uh. The bruises are on my thighs and back.”
Sava smiles, nods and doesn’t seem to want to get back to his feet. He stays there, crouched on one knee, as Bez gets rid of all of his remaining clothes, his stupidly flashy boxers the only thing between Sava’s face and his dick.
If he focuses, he can feel Sava’s breath on his groin, the warmth of it making his hairs stand at attention. If he doesn’t focus, he’s got a slim chance to come out of this without making a massive fool of himself. He should, realistically, think about something gross, something that could really force his wayward dick into submission. Sweaty balls, perhaps, or something about the cheesy smell of ass crack after a particularly humid race. He hopes he doesn’t smell of sweaty balls or cheesy ass crack anyway. It would be terrible if Sava finally came to the conclusion he’s into guys and didn’t fuck him because his ballsack is too smelly.
Fuck, what the hell am I thinking?
Luckily for him, Sava is too busy assessing his many contusions to really mind the faint twitch in the front of his boxers, or the way Bez’s muscles have spasmed at the first, clinical brush of delicate fingertips against his skin.
“Fuck, are you sure you don’t want to head to the medical center?” Sava asks, his fingers hovering on a particularly nasty bruise on Bez’s hip.
He should. He most probably should. Having someone else take care of his minor boo-boos, someone who doesn’t make his dick stir only by existing in such unholy close proximity, would definitely spare him the ordeal of going through all five stages of self-cockblocking grief at once. But Sava is here, on his knees, looking up at him with his incredibly earnest eyes, and Bez can’t help but give in. Cave in, mostly, like a neglected building that’s been abandoned to the fury of the elements for too long.
It is, in fact, a miracle that he manages to keep himself from moaning.
“No, it’s…it’s fine. I think I’ll feel better with the cream,” he ends up saying, his voice faltering a little as he swallows around nothing, his throat sand-dry, like he’s swallowed a sponge.
Sava offers him a tiny, encouraging smile in response.
“Alright. I’ll start with your back. Tell me if it hurts, okay?”
“Okay.”
The thing is, it doesn’t hurt. Like, at all. The cream has a pleasant minty tingle, cool against his inflamed skin. It would feel relaxing even, if he wasn’t so busy keeping his inappropriate erection at bay.
Bez has never considered himself a skillful latin lover, but he isn’t a clueless virgin either. For some reason, though, Sava’s presence alone is enough to turn him into a dweeb who’s never experienced the sweet joys of having his dick touched in a toilet stall, and this might be the crux of the matter.
Maybe Celestino is right. Maybe he does think a bit too much, after all. Maybe he should just relax, lay back, and see where it goes from there.
In a ravine, probably, a voice from the back of his mind supplies, cruel and jabbing. Bez is tempted to scoff at himself, but that would be peak disordered behavior and he doesn’t want Sava to think he’s a lunatic just because he has lively conversations with his own conscience – everyone does, right? He really can’t be the only one.
“Am I applying too much pressure? You’ve gone all stiff…”
Sava’s voice takes on a huskier, even more pleasant note when he’s focusing on a task, especially when he thinks he’s not really good at it. Bez exhales slowly and tries his best to loosen up a little, allowing himself to actually feel the fingertips spreading cool cream across the livid patches scattered around his lower back, where he’s suffered the brunt of the impact. Even his buttocks hurt – he suspects he’s got bruising there too.
“No, it’s alright, I was just…thinking.”
Sava hums, not entirely convinced. When he’s done with his back, his nimble hands travel down to his thighs, ever so gentle, featherlight. Despite his best efforts, Bez’s dick is embarrassingly hard already, straining against his boxers like a beast trapped in a cage. Since he’s working behind him, Sava can’t see it yet, but a loud, panicky part of Bez dreads the moment he will.
“Can you spread your legs a little? You’ve got some bruises on the inside of your thighs too.”
Now, the straight hurr durr guy thing to do in such case is to call your buddy a fag, shoo him away, and tend to your bruises yourself, that much Bez knows, at least from indirect experience. But again, Sava fucks him up in ways he had never imagined possible, though he’s always found him particularly hot – he used to jerk off thinking about him long before joining Aprilia, and it speaks volumes about the trouble he’s gotten himself into.
Having a crush on his coworker is both pathetic and terribly in character, all things considered. It doesn’t mean it’s not inconvenient and messy anyway.
“You can skip it if you want. I’ll take care of it on my own,” he tries to say, but Sava is fast to intercept him, clicking his tongue and then chuckling, coating his long, slender fingers with some more cream.
“I insist.”
His impression of Pecco is too funny for Bez to keep acting like he’s got a ten foot pole up his ass. He laughs too, complacently spreading his legs just so, enough for Sava to reach for the places in which the muscle feels more tender, the pain a pulsing, squirming thing thrumming right under the scraped skin.
Sava would have made a pretty good physio, Bez thinks. He’s got hands as big as shovels, but they’re always pleasantly warm and gentle, calloused but not ruined. He doesn’t bite his nails, unlike Bez, so his hands are always picture perfect, beautiful in a clean, manly way.
He’s not supposed to think about how his dick could perfectly fit the size of Sava’s palm, but it happens anyway, and a tiny, agonizing sound escapes his lips at that. Usually the nervous talker, Bez can’t think about anything to say to fill the silence, which has suddenly started feeling kind of oppressive, in the very peculiar way in which open, barren spaces are; no places where to hide, nowhere to run while he’s sporting a very inconvenient boner and he’s unable to suppress whatever sound threatens to burst out of his throat like those horrible facehuggers in the first Alien movie.
Sava looks comfortable nonetheless, working slowly and easily on each bruise, taking his sweet time spreading the cream evenly. It tingles a little when he gets a bit too close to his balls, so Bez tries to force out a stupid giggle not to look as embarrassed as he feels. Which is even more embarrassing per se because, again, he normally doesn’t act like a squirming, blushing maiden, being as used as he is to communal showers and having dicks shoved in his face all the time, both for sexy and rather unsexy purposes.
He manages to relax a fraction when Sava moves down to the back of his knees and calves, letting out a fractured exhale and glaring at his twitching dick as if scolding it could help. Spoiler, it doesn’t, and when it’s finally time for Sava to start working on the front Bez is, to put it mildly, not ready at all.
Open spaces. Nowhere to hide.
He curls his fingers into a slow fist to steady himself, to trick his brain into thinking it’s not too much of a deal, that he will come up with a credible excuse should Sava ask about his unjustified boner, but he can only suspend his disbelief for so long.
It’s a matter of seconds, really, and of poor choices on his part. He should have listened better when Mig was trying to teach him how to play twister without looking like someone who would have chosen public execution over it, but what’s done is done, and there’s no hiding an erection when he’s got Sava’s nose mere inches from his crotch, close enough that he could probably still smell the race on him even if he didn’t want to.
His face flushes red so fast he feels dizzy, and he freezes like that, with his arms dangling from his sides awkwardly and his jaw clenched so tight his lower teeth hurt.
“Okay. I…uh. I can explain,” he tries, though his voice sounds air-thin and strangled, as if someone has shoved an inflated balloon down his throat. Sava’s look is strangely unreadable. He could be angry as fuck, murderous even, or cordially neutral, and Bez wouldn’t be able to tell.
Time seems to stretch impossibly around them, bending and twisting until Bez wonders if it’s been mere minutes or an hour, and then Sava is rising to his feet and –
And –
There’s this sort of languid glint in the back of Sava’s all too pretty eyes, his curly head cocked to the side as if he’s asking Bez something and Bez can’t really get the question. His throat clicks audibly as he swallows, the scent of the bruise cream now overpowering, almost nauseating, menthol prickling unpleasantly on the tip of his tongue, just like Prosecco when it’s been left in the fridge unstoppered for too long – still a bit fizzy, but not enough to make the acrid tang of poorly preserved wine bearable.
“I’m listening.”
When Sava cups the back of his head with his warm, calloused hand, the skin of Bez’s nape tingles slightly. He gasps, mouth opening and closing rapidly, and he finds out that he can’t, in fact, explain shit without telling Sava he’s had a crush on him since forever, something he’s definitely not going to do while sweaty and sore after a botched race, in a changing room that reeks of soggy leathers and old socks. He realizes he must be looking at him with eyes as big as the moon, and tries to dissimulate by clearing his throat, a mission he only accomplishes partially given that he almost chokes on his own spit.
“I just think,” he carefully improvises when his throat stops itching, “you have beautiful hands.”
He doesn’t know why Sava chooses to fall for it, such a lame excuse he’s scraped for in a handful of beats, or if he deems it wiser not to inquire any further; what he knows for sure is that Sava is pulling him closer, closer, and he doesn’t look particularly shocked by the fact that Bez can get hard when another guy is tending to his bruises – it leads him to wonder if he has, perhaps, seen weirder shit, but it’s a fleeting thought that dissipates as soon as Sava is brushing a kiss against his lips, tender and cautious and yet so fucking hot Bez can feel it straight into his dick, stronger than a shockwave.
Even as dumbstruck as he is, he can’t help but notice how startlingly soft Sava’s lips are. For the briefest moment, Bez considers asking him to drop his moisturizing routine, but it’s just another thought that gets swept away as fast as it bloomed right when the kiss deepens, their mouths opening in an unison, sucking, pulling, teeth clashing with the wanton impatience of it.
It’s easy to say he doesn’t really think much after that.
“My hands? You like my hands?”
Bez nods. Sava is panting, and there’s a rivulet of drool trickling down the corner of his chin. For some reason, Bez finds it so hot he leans in to lick it clean before pushing all of his weight into his chest with a sort of fervid desperation, shivering when Sava’s expert hands trail down his back, then clutch around his hips and squeeze just so, sending a jolt of pleasure mixed with pain down to his unsteady knees.
Bez is fully aware he’s a pathetic fucker when it comes to his crushes but, oh God, nothing has ever felt as good as Sava’s fingers pushing past the elastic band of his boxers, teasing him before stroking him through the thin, stretchy fabric, smiling on his mouth as he tugs at his bottom lip until it veritably hurts – that enough could give Bez the kick past his limit, making him come embarrassingly fast and practically untouched, but he’s lucky enough for once, the exhaustion of the day has set in already so it’ll take him a little while. The agony of it is sweet, his favorite brand of torturous; Sava is good at toying with him, setting an idle pace at first, letting the pressure build inside Bez’s balls as he’s still in his underwear, whimpering along the tiny shocks his dick is sending all through his body. When Sava’s hand finally wraps around his dick, it’s like coming up for air after a prolonged dive: his lungs burn just the same.
He supposes he should keep quiet. It’s not his motorhome after all, and virtually every team member could come knocking at any moment, but he’s finding it impossible to fight against his natural inclination towards moaning, which is why he ends up burying his face into the fragrant crook of Sava’s neck, letting his teeth scrape against his straining tendons, against his taut, sensitive skin. There’s a throaty sound rumbling deep in his chest, something deliciously primal, and Bez realizes he’s already humping his tight fist like he means business even if his legs feel sore from overuse, abused to a point of rupture.
He pleads, at some point, though he can’t really say for what. He wants to come so desperately and, at the same time, he wants to go on until he fucking passes out from sheer exertion, just for the thrill of having his crush jerk him off. His dick is a burning shade of red inside Sava’s pale palm and he’s squirming, thrashing, wailing like a dying animal as his saliva soakes the collar of Sava’s shirt, dark blotches of spit along his jutting collarbones, where Bez has bitten down in a vain attempt to muffle his cries.
Sava is good at this, too fucking good. For the first time, Bez realizes he could have been wrong all along – Sava definitely knows how to jerk off another man, and there’s no way this is his first rodeo.
He knows where to apply more pressure, when to release it. He knows how to fondle the tip of Bez’s cock, how to tease the slit by gently pressing his nail inside, smearing precome all over it to let it glide in and out his fist with ease.
And there’s the cool-and-then-hot sensation of the bruise cream on Bez’s dick, the residues of it clinging to the skin of Sava’s palm like a thin sticky film. It’s not unpleasant, just a little…spicy. It adds a bit of a kick, as if having his dick handled by his long-term crush ever needed that.
He finds himself mouthing at Sava’s pulse, his teeth leaving a nice little mark next to his bobbing adam's apple, and it feels just like drifting in and out of consciousness, lost in the many sensations spurring him towards the edge, overwhelming; the orgasm hits him like a backhand slap, sudden and quick. Stars dance behind his eyelids as he comes with a shocked gasp – he thought he could last just a tiny bit longer. He hears Sava’s breath hitch, his teeth grinding slightly, and then he’s floating, putting all of his weight on Sava and letting him do the heavy lifting for the time being. He’s not sure that his legs could support him right now, and Sava’s chest is too warm and too welcoming not to indulge.
“Are you still with me?”
He looks up. Sava’s smile is a sight to behold, and his heart clenches painfully at how fond it looks, lighting up his entire face.
“No,” Bez mutters, but he’s laughing and, soon enough, Sava is laughing too, his mouth big, full of pearly white, regular teeth. They stay like this for a while longer before the sensation of drying cum between them becomes intolerable – they part only because Sava needs to change into clean clothes and Bez, being still shaky on his legs, needs to find a comfortable surface where to collapse if he doesn’t want to end up face first on the floor.
The room keeps spinning around him. Despite his botched race, he’s fucking elated.
“I didn’t think,” he says, watching Sava pull on a pair of sweatpants that smell of laundry detergent, his dick stiff in his plain white Calvin Klein briefs. He feels kind of guilty now for not being able to reciprocate, but he’d probably pass out if he tried – plus, Sava isn’t asking, so it most probably means he understands how utterly destroyed Bez is feeling. “You were into men.”
Sava frowns, then he laughs again, having a hard time locating the collar on his Aprilia polo. When he emerges from it and his flattened curls bounce back into shape like pulled springs, Bez thinks he really, really wants Sava to fuck him nasty, the next time.
“Well, I can’t always spoil you everything now, can I?” He jokes. Bez tosses him a sock.
“You would have spared me months of suffering.”
Sava humors him, taking a seat on the opposite end of the bench and allowing him to prop his feet up his muscular thighs, immediately starting rubbing his calves with a slow shake of his head.
“Suffering. Come on, don’t be dramatic. I ended your suffering pretty well, I think, no?”
Bez blows him a raspberry. Somebody will come looking for them soon, and he doesn’t want to waste these last few minutes on banter; as much as he loves it, he loves the quiet of Sava’s hands running up and down his sore calves more.
“Maybe next time you can do better,” he hums, poking him with his toe.
Sava laughs again, and all the butterflies carefully stored inside Bez’s stomach start fluttering at once. He winks at him, a mischievous little thing that sets all of Bez’s nerve endings on fire.
“Maybe…”