Work Text:
Champagne spraying had always been charged, a little sexual at best, very sexual at worst. Spraying someone with white foam while high on adrenaline post-race can do some interesting things to the human body, often leading to some innuendos best left behind closed doors.
Just like when Bezz and Pecco had gotten to Parc Ferme, and Bezz had leapt into his arms and dragged him down to the floor, helmet kiss after helmet kiss before Marc had even arrived. They had basically screamed each other's praises, before even thinking about their teams, more entranced in each other's victories (Pecco 1st, Marco 2nd).
They had held onto each other's helmets with care, brown eyes not leaving the other’s, clinging to each other's highs.
Even when Marc had arrived they had not managed to split from each other, hands remaining interlinked when they collided into the waiting arms of their teams just before.
Even when Marc had grabbed their faces and delivered his own helmet kisses to theirs (for the media to eat up), they were blissfully unaware, too busy gazing into each other’s eyes, saving each little detail of this moment to memory.
Then when they were spraying the champagne they were focused on each other. It was never Pecco or Marco, it was always Pecco AND Marco.
When Pecco watched the almost-white bubbles spill down the neck of the younger, he couldn’t help but stare. He wanted to lick it up, push his tongue against the salty prosecco-stained skin and preferably replace it with his own taste and marks in the process.
He was hit with the craving to make him look even messier, and that he did, dumping the remaining contents of his own bottle onto curly hair, watching it cling to his skin as he hastily closed his eyes to prevent the alcohol from pooling in them.
Pecco almost wishes he didn’t. So that he could see tears form in the eyes of the younger, ones not of sadness but of nature of pleasure, all because of him–
Bezz tossed his head back, allowing it to spill freely down his face, mouth open to catch a few drops before he laughed, full of joy. Pecco’s craving was not filled, even as he watched Bezz flick his hat on backwards and shake some of the droplets from his skin when doing a quick post-celebration English interview with Pol, messy.
It wasn’t enough, just to drown the second-place rider with prosecco, he wanted to eat him, in any way he could. He would like to think he could think rationally, but his brain seemed to miss the fact that this was his best friend and not some random chick at the club.
Pecco fumbled his way through his own interview, giving the basic PR response of “it was very good, very happy with the result, we will try to do again next weekend–” before hurrying off backstage to find Bezz again.
It was like his primal animalistic mind was the only part activated, and nothing else could overpower his need to find him.
It was never hard to find Bezz post-podium. He had found someone new to cling to, Fabio, and was leaning against his neck with that usual Bezz calmness he brought when he was hugging one of the academy members, even as he was visibly vibrating under the surface.
“Caio,” Pecco said hastily, grabbing Bezz’s wrist from the shoulder of Fabio and pulling him away, “we are needed briefly, scusa,” he rushes away, as Bezz stumbles after him, waving back at Fabio.
“What is it?” Bezz asks as Pecco pulls him into the first small, dark space he can find. He brings him in and away from prying eyes and pushes him up against the nearest surface (a brick wall).
“Pecco?” he asks again, quieter this time, hair still dripping on the tightly curled ends by the edges of his hairline and the sides of his ears.
Pecco watches his hair, before grabbing at the root of it, by the side of his head, the scalp scratching against his nails, and wrestling him into a kiss, more teeth and tongue than lips.
Surprisingly, Bezz responds immediately, sinking into it and gripping the brick wall behind him as he pushes back just as forcefully, leaning into the hand in his hair.
Pecco’s tongue shoves its way into Marco’s mouth, pushing against the back of his teeth as his other hand grips his waist, clenching at every twitch of his hips.
Bezz whines at that, head falling back ever so slightly, causing Pecco to lose traction on his lips and slip down further, sucking and biting at his jaw and throat, like he was searching for something. Bezz continues to gasp and moan, getting ever so slightly louder as he slumps back against the wall, brick pulling at the loose strands of his hair.
Suddenly, as if hit by the realisation of their current position, Pecco freezes.
He pulls back as if he is repulsed and looks at the blissed-out look on Bezz’s face, as he groans at the sudden loss of contact.
And he runs.
🏍
Halloween was always an excuse to party, especially in a sport so dominated by alcohol and celebration. As such, Pecco found himself leaning on a leather couch that had probably been used prior to his arrival, based on the stains that remained, but he wasn’t terribly bothered by it.
This was a strip club after all. At least it was when it wasn’t being rented out for the purposes of a MotoGP, Moto2, and Moto3 Halloween party.
The boys loved it, dancing around the poles and singing along to whatever song was blasting through the speakers, getting closer to each other than they would sober.
The bartenders were running around, pouring drinks and cutting off people before they threw up, it was a good place to people-watch. Seeing what people look like when they are loose and away from the line of media fire, truly relaxing.
But one person had been catching his eye time and time again as he nursed his whisky.
Bezz, once again in fishnets, this time that horrific neon yellow (with black garters), in a far more form-fitting (although not tight per-say) black T-shirt dress with the neckline cut out, little frays of fabric sticking out on pale skin now that summer had come to an end.
Everyone was watching him (and Marc, but Marco was more age appropriate) and it was irritating. His grip on the glass had been tightening every time he glanced at those around him, who would touch and linger on his body just a little too long for comfort.
They had been a bit weird at the moment. How do best friends go back to best friends after making out in prosecco-soaked leathers anyway? It was difficult, and people could tell, but said people weren’t making comment, mostly out of fear.
One guy, someone from Moto3 if he recalls right, far too young, even has the confidence to smack him on the ass as he walks by. He knows that those kinds of gestures are normal in the sport, so much so that he wouldn’t have batted an eye if it was anyone else, but this was Bezz. And he was dressed in such a way that this was purposeful, for the kid's own gain, not some show of comradery.
He slammed the glass down on the sleek black table, some of the liquid just spilling over and onto his waiting fingers. He was just getting done glaring at the kid, when a phone buzzed on the table, not Marc’s (he had taken it with him), but his.
Pecco blushed vividly under the dim red lights as he glared over at Franco, who had a variety of people crowded around him. When Franco met his eyes, he laughed, and patted Celin on the shoulder, whispering something in his ear.
Celestino had just gotten back to the booth, having spent the last hour or so dancing with and defending Bezz from the unwanted attention of drunk men.
Cele obviously did not like what Franco had asked him, tossing his head back and letting out a groan that he could swear he could hear from across the dancefloor. They had a brief back and forth before Celin rose from the seat and headed out towards Bezz again.
When Bezz spotted him coming back, he had resumed his drunk clinging and dancing, just about grinding on his friend (?) as they chatted animatedly with one another. Cele had leant into his ear and said something that made Bezz’s eyes go wide, and if he was closer, Pecco was sure he would have seen the blotchy redness covering his cheeks.
He had nodded at whatever question Cele had asked, before the aforementioned twisted Bezz around and faced himself towards Pecco, angling Bezz’s back towards him.
His arm snuck around and basically groped at the older’s ass, an eyebrow raised as he stared straight at Pecco. He continued to whisper in his ear, and it was obvious to anyone that they were both enjoying it.
Pecco leant back more, tilting his head at the younger while spreading his legs further, trying to exude all of the confidence he didn’t have.
Cele shrugged and put his chin on Bezz’s shoulder, nudging at the spot ever so gently. Pecco could feel his eyebrows twitch.
Was this Celestino’s way of calling Marco off-limits?
It was a very unique way of doing it. Pecco would have backed off if Cele had just told him. That didn’t stop the jealousy from curling in his stomach, fingers twitching towards his phone.
It was a sinking feeling. It felt like heartbreak.
Pecco made eye contact with Celestino again, and just nodded, before standing up and gathering his things, making a beeline for the door.
He had basically sprinted away from the club, before stumbling his way home, or to the hotel, more like. He wasn’t drunk. He felt, almost drunk on sadness. Like his heart was clawing its way out of his chest, leaving him bleeding out and halfway dead on the streets.
He couldn’t tell if it was more because Bezz hadn’t told him of the relationship, or the fact that it wasn’t him.
He had cried that night.
He had promised to himself to get over these feelings, for the better of everyone, the team, the academy, Bezz.
What Pecco didn’t see in his dash out the door, was Cele immediately removing himself from Marco, a worried look on his face. Bezz had even called out for him an arm extending towards him as he almost brushed past, and Franco had looked confused as he watched him slam open the door and make a run for it.
He also didn’t see the way that Bezz had clung to Fabio for the rest of the night, blaming everything on Cele and Franco for ruining the night and making everything worse.
He also didn’t know that Bezz was trying to make him jealous, like Marc with Vale, and he had recruited the rest of the academy to help.
🏍
It wasn’t Pecco’s most intelligent move. To decide that instead of just thinking about his feelings and moving on, he should start fucking anyone with a pulse. It was out of character, the way that he would go to a club on Fridays, Saturdays, Sundays. Always finding someone new to spend the night with.
Never the same person, obviously, but always someone who wasn’t Bezz. He had stopped hanging out with the younger during off-weekends, same with rider parades and any celebrations pre or post race. To be honest, he had stopped talking to everyone. He was keeping his distance, and it felt like it could be working.
Even if every time his red, sweaty face popped up on the screen, waving and winking at the camera, his heart would skip a beat, and he would glue his eyes to it, watching every movement, that doesn’t mean that he isn’t getting over him. Not at all.
He could still feel like his stomach was closing in on him when he saw the photo dumps from weekends away and trips to the ranch. That didn’t mean that he was still attracted to him, he was his friend, just a friend. Pecco almost began to wish that he never realised that he had these feelings.
Sometimes he even wished he had binned it on the day of the incident. Perhaps if that had happened, they could have been blissfully unaware of feelings and just remained best friends.
So when he had gotten the message from Valentino that there was a ranch day this weekend, and that he would appreciate it if he could actually show up to this one, he felt like he had to. It was awkward, and he couldn’t tell Valentino why it was happening. He had just fixed his shit with Marc, and they were more affectionate than ever, and he doesn’t know if he can deal with all of that.
He accepted the invitation after he had tried to make an excuse for sickness, which was quickly rebutted with something about someone having seen him in a club hours before, so he couldn’t be that sick.
It was quickly after that conversation had ended that he reluctantly began to pull himself from bed, and that was when he got a message from Marc.
Pecco huffed and threw his phone onto his bed, next to where he had begun to pack his little suitcase. They had suits and helmets and whatnot at the ranch, he really only needed any clothing, chargers and personal hygiene stuff. Hence, the small bag.
He had decided to drive there, it wasn’t terribly far, only a few hours, but because his little excuse had not done him as well as the last few, he had a bit of a time crunch. He had left the home of the guy of the night, as he was horrific at head. Like so bad that Pecco had gone soft a few minutes in. That was when he called it quits, thanked the guy, made sure the NDA was signed, and walked out.
It isn’t terribly fair that someone had seen him leave the club with someone, at least they didn’t see that it was a guy. Because as “gay” as the sport could be to those looking (who smacks that many asses for fun), there is no homophobia like in the sporting industry.
And when he had arrived at the ranch late the night before so that he could call in tired and run upstairs before having to talk to anyone, that was nobody's business.
He woke up a couple of hours later, probably around 1 or 2 am, to someone entering the room and sitting on the edge of the bed. Even in the lack of light, he could tell who it was.
Bezz.
He was hunched over a little and his hands were in fists on his lap, it looked like he was shaking a little, but he was trying to hide it, hide it from Pecco, hoping that he would stay asleep.
“Bezz?” he took the dive, sitting up slightly, eyes still squinting in the dark, hair messy from sleep. Bezz’s head snapped over to him, and Pecco was faced with the hurt behind his eyes. It was painful to look at.
“Vale–he said I should talk to you…” he strung his hands together, looking back down at his lap as he pulled his legs up to be cross-legged on the side of the bed.
“About?” he queried, even though he knew exactly what he was talking about. He knew it was coming, that he could only avoid his best friend for so long. A best friend who took a lack of tactile affection as a lack of care, and Pecco would be the first to admit that he was not giving Bezz any tactile affection at the moment.
“You know what.” his voice was getting sterner as if he was becoming angry with this conversation. A single hand had come to rest in his own hair, pulling at the strands in a self-soothing gesture.
“No I don’t–” “Yes you do! ‘Cause you’re doing it right now! Avoiding me–” he spun to face him, anger evident in his eyes, “and you usually never avoid me! You tell me everything! I don’t get it? What did I do? Did I do something? How do I fix it? I don’t–” he cut himself off with a wet laugh, “it feels like you hate me– and I don’t know why, was it the Halloween party? Were you disgusted by me–” he was quickly cut off, “No! Never–never disgusted by you. You’re–” he started, before quickly freezing himself.
Pecco sat there, mouth open for a few seconds before reaching over to the bedside table to tap on the lamp. With some light, Pecco was able to make out the tears coming from Marco’s eyes and the way that he was rubbing against them with vengeance. “Franci– we are… we are like– Pecco and Bezz when you see one the other isn’t far away– but it feels like you hate me now, and I can’t–”
Pecco gave in, grabbing the younger by the wrist and pulling him into a sightly tense hug, “You didn’t do anything– I am just working through some stuff. I haven’t been touching anyone,” (if you ignore the countless people in his sheets), “I’m sorry I made you feel that way.” He gently pats his back, as Bezz melts into the long-awaited contact.
“So you are just– looking for some space? From everyone?” he asked quietly, “That is why I haven’t been here. I– just have some interpersonal stuff. Nothing to do with you–” he grimaced at the way it came out, “I mean, like. It is all my fault, just me. I am not good to be around at the moment, so I didn’t want to– spread it.” Spread his big gay love feelings, that is. “It is tough, figuring out yourself, especially when trying to defend the title– it is hard. And I have been trying to work through it, but sometimes I get caught up in it.”
“Oh–okay. I’m sorry for– for like… overreacting.” Bezz pulled back, looking around Pecco’s face for any chance he was lying.
“Don’t be sorry for having feelings–” hypocrite “that isn’t your fault. I will– work on it faster.” he smiles at him in the warm light, the birds outside singing themselves to sleep.
“And you know you can talk to me about your problems any time. We are Pecco and Bezz after all.”
“Yeah. I know.”
They smiled at each other, staring into each other's eyes.
I wish he loved me like I love him.
🏍
Bezz had had a few bad weeks, filled with bad results after bad results that had left him in a psychological stump.
But, it had ended, and Pecco was right beside him in P2 to Marco’s truly magical P1. Franco had even managed to cling onto P3, racing Jorge to the final line, Marc just behind him after a mechanical issue off the start.
When Pecco had passed him on his cool-down flag lap, Bezz had glanced at him, and instead of taking his extended arm, he had given him a thumbs up.
He felt his chest crack a little more.
Pecco understands that he should have expected this, in fact, he had asked for this. But the pictures that had no doubt been taken, showing his public rejection hurt him more than he expected.
He had retracted his arm quickly as if he had been burned, and ridden off into a wheelie, hyping up the crowd and drawing the attention away from his rejection.
When he pulled into Parc Ferme, and the team had patted him on the head, and Vale had given him a brief hug before the cheers became louder and the rev of an engine could be heard behind him just as he peels off his helmet.
He spun around to be met with both Franco and Bezz, who were sliding off of their bikes and into the arms of their teams.
And then.
Into each others.
Pecco knows his mouth had dropped open, his eyes had probably widened, and it was likely comical. Maybe it will become a meme in the coming days. Something like the picture of the man looking back at a different lady while holding his girlfriend's hand.
Bezz had, in all senses, replaced him.
But then they were pulling away from each other and Bezz was approaching him, hand extended out. He was going in for a handshake. Pecco couldn’t take that, instead, he pulled the younger into a hug, lifting him in the air ever-so.
He patted him on the back, putting him on the ground and patting the side of his helmet, “You did very well, we are all proud!” he basically had to yell over the cheers of the Italian crowds. Valentino echoed his approval, shaking the younger by the shoulders.
It had been tough, for him to build over the psychological aspects of not doing so well, and he had done it. And Vale and Pecco, and probably the rest of “the gang” would never let him forget it.
That he was a good rider and deserved to be here. Even when his own mind told him not.
When Marco had headed towards the media for the brief interview before the podium he had mentioned Franco before him, only even saying his name when prompted by the interviewer, smile seeming to drop as he tensed unnaturally.
When they had been given the trophies, placing them down and grabbing the prosecco, he shouldn’t have been surprised to see Marco putting more effort into spraying Franco and the team instead of him.
He played it off well enough, smiling through it, hoping his obnoxious sunglasses covered the twitches in his eyes and the hurt that lay behind them.
Bezz still looked as good as he always did on the podium, a big smile on his face as he drank out of the stream of Franco’s bottle. It wasn’t quite as messy as the podium they had shared, but he still finds his stomach twisting with post-race arousal.
He distracts himself by once again distracting the crowds, waving around his arms and smiling as big as he can muster, Valentino looking up at him with that knowing look in his eyes. Marc was probably watching him from the screen in his garage, probably just joking with his engineers and laughing.
And here he was, eye twitching as he watched Franco get a little too close. Doesn’t he know about Celestino and Bezz’s relationship? Or was it just Pecco that wasn’t allowed to touch him? Had Bezz told Cele what had happened? Why did Bezz kiss him back?
When he was pulled back behind stage he had basically stumbled his way back to his motorhome, dismissing the looks of worry from the engineers and Ducati workers, instead closing the door behind him and pulling off the top layer of his leathers.
He needed to get a grip Bezz could never be his, and even if he could be, would Bezz even like that? That includes the dismissal of the literal hellfire they would be in if it ever came out (you get it, came out). But he cannot help but feel the need arising in his throat.
He should probably apologise to Celestino first–
Speak of the devil, his phone buzzed on the small table, forcing him out of his self-loathing session as he clicked on the notification, opening up their thread.
Pecco threw his phone onto the couch, screaming briefly into his hands before standing up, heart about in his chest.
He had to find Marco.
🏍
He had asked every single engineer that Aprilia had, and none of them seemed to know where the purple-clad man had disappeared off to.
Pecco had probably looked insane, adding to the media frenzy of the weekend, running around with leathers around his waist occasionally smacking someone when he rounds a corner just a little too fast.
He had ended his search where he really should have begun it, at the Aprilia motorhomes, where Bezz’s name was branded across the door.
His knocking was more like banging as he smacked his closed fist on the door over and over again even when he heard the sound of frustrated Italian behind the door, and the crash of something falling to the floor.
The door had opened to reveal a Marco with a rather annoyed look on his face, as it melted into surprise as they stared at each other for a few seconds.
Pecco took this as his chance, grabbing the front of his undershirt and pushing him further into the motorhome, spinning him around and pushing him back against the door as it clicked closed. Bezz looks up at him with big eyes, hand rising to pull Pecco’s off of him.
“Pecco?” his voice was quiet again, far more reserved than it was the last time this had happened.
Pecco let go of him, grappling with some composure as he stumbles his way over to the very comfortable couch that Bezz had bought at the start of the season. Bezz’s face changes to being more worried, squatting down in front of him, basically on his knees in front of the defending world champion.
“Did something happen? I can–”
Pecco cuts off his thoughts, “I am so stupid.” he basically coughs out, head in hand. Bezz pulled at his hands, trying to get a better look at his face, still very gentle.
“No, you aren’t. Did someone say something to you?” he successfully pulls his hands away from his face, giving Pecco a full view of the younger kneeling on his knees between his legs.
“You and Cele. You guys aren’t like– together, yes?”
Bezz’s face goes red, and he pulls back his hands to rake them through his sweaty hair, “No! No– never, what?”
“You see. I thought you guys were–”
“Because of Halloween?”
“Because of Halloween. And so I– was like– uh… heartbroken? I didn’t want to do something to you that you didn’t like, so I pulled away as much as I could–” Bezz sits there with his jaw basically on the floor.
“You were heartbroken?”
“I didn’t want to ruin everything.” Pecco continues, ignoring his confession.
“You could never ruin us. I was just giving you– space, like you wanted.”
Pecco grabbed at the back of his neck, pulling him up and basically into his lap, as Bezz’s hand fell against the back of the couch, trying to stop him from falling onto him.
Pecco didn’t like that, pulling him further down until the younger was more appropriately positioned hip to hip on his lap. They stared at each other for a few seconds before Bezz decided that enough was enough and gripped at Francesco’s hair and pulled their faces together, lips crashing in a far more intimate way than last time.
Marco was positioned above him and was basically trying to claw his way into the elder’s body, as Pecco’s hands moved to grip the small of his waist, one hand creeping down to squeeze at his ass. Bezz jolted at the motion, pushing their crotches down onto one another, drawing a surprised moan out of the two.
Bezz pulls at Pecco’s hair, pulling his face away from his so that he can kiss down his jaw, tonguing at the particularly sweaty spots as if the salt arouses him more. His head falls back further as he feels the lips nip at his pulse, drawing an unforeseen whine from his throat.
Pecco let his eyes close, letting Bezz take his time with small juts of his hips every once and a while to help satisfy himself. When those movements become more jittery, he takes his hands and lifts Bezz slightly off his lap, effectively removing him from his place in the curve of his neck.
Bezz whined at that, curls falling across his face.
“This can’t be casual, right? You will be mine? Not Cele’s?” Pecco whispered, watching as Bezz wriggled in his grip, seeking the friction his skin-tight suit couldn’t supply.
“No– no– no– just yours, me and you–” Bezz looks down at him, a blissed out look on his face, “I was close why did you stop–”
Pecco raises an eyebrow, “You were going to come from grinding on my lap like a dog?” he lets the younger down, but spreads his own legs ever-so, restricting the amount of movement he can have, and as such, the amount of friction he could receive.
“Yes– yes, I was. But you ruined it–”
“Ruined it?” he asks, pushing him further away from his crotch, further towards his knees.
Bezz whined again, hands resting on his shoulders, looking down at him through his eyelashes, “Please?”
“You need it?” he asks, as if he can’t see it, and feel his own need pushing against his leathers uncomfortably.
He shifts the younger onto just one thigh, sitting back further into the couch, letting Bezz fall further forward against him.
“Go ahead.”
Bezz looks up with wide eyes, realising what he is being asked, “You want me– to–”
“Do what you were doing, no?”
Bezz moans at that, letting his hips twitch, leather on leather making for a less-then-smooth glide. His head falls down to the older’s neck, sucking wetly against his neck, surely leaving a mark. It was awkward, almost, but at the moment, it felt so– right– easy.
Pecco felt his own hips seeking friction against the thick thigh that was placed between his legs. He let out short puffs of air as he began to grind up against it.
Bezz clung tightly to his shoulders, there is no doubt that if he hadn’t had on his thin undershirt, long red marks would be spanning down his back. He almost wished they had taken the time to pull off their clothes so that the marks (no doubt irritated and pink under his skin) would last for longer.
It was rushed, in the end. They had just craved the intimacy that sexual release gave, the connection that it had, even in casual means. Even more so after so long apart from each other.
As they climbed up to orgasm, their mouths reconnected in a messy, wet kiss with each of them moaning into each other's mouths, pushing each other closer and closer to the top.
When they tipped over the edge together, they clung to each other, sweat like they had just finished a race, gracing their skin with a post-sex glow.
Bezz pushed his forehead against the older’s as he came down for his eyes, hips twitching in oversensitivity.
“I think I am falling in love with you.” Pecco whispers, heavy breaths echoing between them.
Bezz laughed, flopping his weight down onto Pecco, “I think I am, too.”
Pecco kissed his forehead as they lay listening to the heartbeats that rang in his ears in the soft moment.
“Next time, ask, yes?” Bezz said, smiling at him as he removed himself from his neck for a few seconds to look at him with a cheeky face.
“Yes, I promise,” Pecco replied seriously.
🏍
Years later Cele would say it was all on him that they had removed their heads from their asses.
Years later the Aprilia team would still complain about the noises they heard coming from Bezz’s motorhome that day, and the coming weeks before the duo found out about beds.
Years later, Bezz would still smile down at him through his eyelashes after a podium finish for the both of them, prosecco showers just as charged as they used to be.