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1
2005
As Jorge flipped through the air, he cursed Dani Pedrosa.
As his head connected with the ground, hard, and he rolled over again before skidding through the gravel, he cursed his bike, then his engineers, then Pedrosa again, and God for good measure.
The commentators declared that he was perhaps a bit too desperate to pass Pedrosa right there, on the inside of the fast left-hander at the bottom of Sachsenring hill, and they were probably right.
He braked too late, lifted too early, and sat up directly under Pedrosa’s rear tyre, sending his own bike toppling over and throwing himself painfully.
The blood pounded in Jorge’s ears, almost loud enough to drown the sound of the crowd’s yells, and the engines of the bikes backing up the pack soaring around the corner.
Shoving himself up onto his elbows, he looked around, all the colours too bright and edges a little too fuzzy to settle his focus on.
His own bike lay a few metres away, a scarlet smudge in the gravel, with a dark blue accompanying it, someone else must have gone down with him.
There was a moment of satisfaction, a relief in the knowledge that whatever incident had happened, Jorge wasn’t the only one cursing the race in the gravel. He would be able to bitterly complain to his engineers and find a way to shift blame.
A racing incident, someone turning in on him, leaning too soon, Jorge could dissect it and pick it apart frame by frame, just to not be the one left alone in a vast sea of gravel, a speck of red in the grey.
The pain radiating from his leg momentarily blurred Jorge’s mind of who it must be who would have fallen alongside him after the heavy contact, and he instead groaned weakly inside his helmet, whole body shaking as he braced to attempt to stand.
Then a hand, gloved in deep navy, extended in front of him.
Jorge blinked, still a little lightheaded from the pain and the rolling, eyes following the glove up a dark blue arm, to a dark blue figure standing, helmet cocked slightly, as if in question or concern.
He grabbed the hand without a second thought, gloves sliding together and gripping, fitting together with an uncanny certainty, before an unexpected strength dragged Jorge up to his feet.
Whoever had fallen with him, unexpectedly courteous for someone Jorge had just wrecked the race of.
As Jorge settled on his feet, head swirling as he tried to centre his balance, the rider didn’t let go of his hand.
The strangest sensation was spreading up Jorge’s arm, crackling electricity dancing up his veins, tickling flames that licked his skin under the leathers, teasingly warm and feeding the blaze in his chest that swelled in satisfaction.
The hand in his was strong, solid, and Jorge was certain he could feel the warmth of it through two layers of leather gloves.
“You okay?” The Spanish was accented and very familiar, if only from watching endless interviews with his fists clenched tight enough to dig fingernail marks into his palms.
Jorge didn’t think he had even had a conversation with Dani Pedrosa, but he knew him well enough, and more so now that he had fucked his race.
The anger curdled once again in Jorge’s mouth, lips pulled back into a sneer behind his helmet.
“Fuck you,” He bit out, snatching his hand back, and trying not to think about how his palm burned.
Of course, this then let the pain of his leg come rushing back, and Jorge hissed in pain, staggering.
Pedrosa was there, of-fucking-course he was, an arm around Jorge’s waist to steady him, which was immediately shoved away, despite the limb screaming for support.
After the bizarre feeling from touching his hand, Jorge wanted Pedrosa far from touching him again. He didn’t want the man anywhere near him, anger swelling once again, hot and fierce.
“Your leg-” Dani started, voice muffled under the helmet but still unmistakable.
“Fuck off.” Jorge took a wobbling step away, towards his bike, before the high-vis clad marshals were suddenly all around them, two pulling his bike upright and starting to wheel it away, another one taking Jorge by the shoulder, a strong arm around him to take the weight from his leg, guiding him swiftly from the track with words that Jorge didn’t register.
The anger sizzled in Jorge’s chest, spitting and furious, gloved fists clenching and unclenching.
He hated that little bastard so much, already two world championships to his name, and no doubt on the way to win this one as well.
Jorge had barely made it out of 125cc, just fighting his way up into 250cc, still finding his footing in the class, and Pedrosa would be dancing away again, skipping up to Motogp with another trophy in his pocket and leaving Jorge behind.
He had barely started to sink his teeth properly into their rivalry in 2003, before the man with fire in his dark, dark eyes, and a way of throwing around the bike like his own body was a part of it, was gone, racing off to a higher class and leaving Jorge aching and aimless.
There was a burning ember in Jorge’s chest that had warmed and fueled him for his whole life, and needed the smoke venting. The fire wanted Pedrosa, it needed him, needed to chase and beat and win, needed to look down at him and know that they were equals and Jorge had stood higher.
No other rival rider could match that, no one else made Jorge burn like this, stoked the flame to ride to his limits like this. Jorge hated Pedrosa with every part of his being, and he needed him even more than that.
He had no career, no drive, no passion to win and truly prove himself as the best, without Pedrosa there to be the one to beat.
There weren’t really words Jorge could put to the feeling more than hate, so that’s what it must be. He knew emotions, his father had taught him what was useful and what wasn’t. What could be weaponised and channeled into viciousness on the track, and what was disregarded before it could linger.
He hated Pedrosa, and didn’t know why his hand still tingled with something that wasn’t pain where the man had gripped it. Didn’t know why the marshal hauling him along didn’t have the same support as Pedrosa’s arm had.
2
2008
Jorge still didn’t have words for the way racing Pedrosa made him feel.
It made him feel something, a lot of things really, but ‘hate’ didn’t quite feel like enough to adequately express the emotions that choked and swelled inside him when he saw that man.
Two years alone in 250cc, chasing Pedrosa’s legacy.
Jorge had never won in 125cc, so there was no way he wasn’t going to do anything to match Pedrosa’s back-to-back 250cc record.
Every single race he had to fight, with rivals he did not care about and wins that never rang as significantly as they did when it was Pedrosa he was beating.
Two years looking for a number 1 or a 3 on a deep navy bike, glossy in the sunlight, a target to chase, a purpose to drive him.
Jorge, of course, won both years.
2006 and 2007 had his name permanently etched upon them, and yet they felt like the least fulfilling successes of his career.
How was he meant to take in the moment and appreciate his championships when his eyes were only fixed on one point in the middle distance, a Repsol bike tearing up the premier class as a rookie, so far out of reach from Jorge’s twitching fingers.
So when 2008 finally came around, and Jorge settled atop of the gorgeous, shiny new Yamaha, Pedrosa was finally close enough to grasp.
What Jorge would do once he caught him, he didn’t really know, hadn’t thought that far.
All he knew was that he needed Pedrosa closer, needed to curl his hands into his skin, sink his teeth into flesh, prove himself greater than, only to be able to look down and see those dark eyes blazing back.
Pole position in his first race in the premier class was like a dream. Seeing Pedrosa down in 8th had him feeling so elated, it was close to arousal.
That meant there was going to be a chase.
Jorge barely noted the other riders that would be nipping at his rear tyre, didn’t give a second thought to the most recent champions Stoner and Hayden, barely cared about his teammate, the great Rossi.
Pedrosa would be chasing him down, hunting him, for the first time in years, and Jorge was filled with such anticipation he was almost shaking.
Losing the win was disappointing of course, but coming second on his debut? Nothing to be ashamed of.
And to stand on that same podium with Pedrosa, to boast his talent and skills finally in front of the world, and stand one step above the man?
Jorge was rather lightheaded, which could be blamed on the champagne, and definitely hard in his leathers, which was harder to justify.
The second race of the year; Jerez. Jorge’s home race, but also Pedrosa’s.
It was clear from the fight in qualifying that they both wanted this win just as badly. The need to beat each other only stoked hotter with the desire to be victorious in front of their uproarious home crowds.
Jorge claimed pole, Pedrosa lining up beside him on the grid in second, so whisper-close Jorge wanted to reach out and take him.
Having Pedrosa so near now was driving Jorge almost to insanity.
He had felt the past two tortuous years unbearable, no chance to fight Pedrosa at all, only to watch bitterly as he developed other rivalries.
This was somehow even more agonising, the one thing Jorge had been aching for now in his grasp, and he still wanted more. He wanted to goad Pedrosa, follow him, poke him, tick him off and over until the man finally snapped and did…something.
Pedrosa did not like Jorge, this was widely known now, and Jorge felt a triumphant glee whenever he was reminded.
Undeniable evidence that he had made enough of an effect on Pedrosa for the man to know him, to dislike him to the point that he publicly shows his disdain.
Typically mild mannered, a quiet type, not one to shout about his competition if it wasn’t necessary, and Jorge had managed to squirm in under his skin and bury himself there, unshakeable, even after years in separate series.
Jorge loved it.
The race he did not love so much, dropping to finish third. Another podium on only his second race was fantastic, but to slip from pole once again, this time to third, was frustrating.
Far more so was the sight of the Repsol branded bike slipping past him. Jorge was no longer chased, but the one in pursuit, falling behind his own teammate in the process.
Jorge’s anger smouldered in flickering embers in his chest, glowing and smoking, just waiting for a lick of oxygen to suddenly flare.
He knew Pedrosa was angry too, felt it in the unspoken smug satisfaction at the victory, smelt it in the way Pedrosa looked up at him and Rossi like he knew he was better.
Jorge wanted to punch him, wanted to sink his fist through the man’s chest and seize his heart, crush his lungs, steal the breath from his throat.
But it was soon to be the podium, and Jorge could play nicely. As hard as it seemed to become around Pedrosa, he was still a professional, young and reckless as he may have been.
The memory of someone reminding him that the King of Spain would be in attendance hit Jorge only when he recognised the man waiting with a few other guests in the room before the walk out to the podium.
He bowed his head politely, shook hands as was proper, and thought nothing of it when he also shook Rossi’s hand, and Rossi Pedrosa’s.
It was only when His Majesty called out to pause them, to frown over Jorge not shaking hands with Pedrosa, that another curl of a hard to identify emotion licked through him.
Not hate, although it should have been. Not easily placeable at all, negative… maybe. Frustration, possibly. There was certainly frustration at the interruption of typical proceedings, and a lick of embarrassment as well. This was The King.
And yet he did not want to shake Pedrosa’s hand, did not want to have to feel warm skin under his palm and remember how human the man was.
Two years of waiting to face Pedrosa again on the track, to race and fight without mercy, Jorge was wildly unprepared to see him off of it, to look into big dark eyes instead of a cold visor.
When a firm hand wrapped around Jorge’s wrist he was too surprised to resist, as he registered his hand being tugged forward and pressed against another.
Instinctively his fingers curled around theirs before he could even refocus his attention and follow the hand he was holding up the arm, to the face that glared up at him with undisguised distaste.
Jorge wouldn’t have needed to look up anyway. The sudden electric charge that seemed to fire up his arm at the skin contact was almost enough to make him recoil, if the warmth of the flames licking their way up to his chest weren’t so captivating.
A feeling he had only felt once before, when he was pulled up from the gravel, 3 long years prior. It felt like an eternity, but Jorge would never forget the way it felt to touch Dani Pedrosa.
Pedrosa pulled his hand back as soon as he could without being too disrespectful of the King, who seemed far too pleased with himself over the whole matter, and Jorge was called out onto the podium before he could say a word.
Jorge barely took notice of the trophy and the champagne and the crowds.
His hand was burning hot and tingling, shooting sparks directly back to the roaring flame in his chest, flaring brighter than it had in so, so long.
3
2010
“That was a risky fucking trick you pulled,” Jorge hissed against the back of Dani’s neck, teeth grazing the skin as he panted.
Dani just laughed breathlessly, arching his back a little more, disregarding the ache in his bones for the way it allowed Jorge to sink in even deeper.
“Worked, didn’t it?” He bit back, arms trembling a little, letting his chest take more of his weight against the wall of the motorhome.
Jorge’s fingers pressed hard enough into his waist to undoubtedly leave bruises, but he wasn’t supporting enough of Dani’s balance for him to be steady after that race.
The last corner overtake, a filthy slip up the inside, snatching a win from Jorge’s grasp after so many laps nipping at his rear tyre.
Dani would of course say it was all for the racing, that he tried his hardest the entire race, that everything he did was for points and for the team.
But maybe if he had left the overtake for the last lap just because he knew it would really piss off Jorge? Well, that was an added benefit.
He liked when Jorge was like this, out of control and out of his mind, his eyes only on Dani, no space in his head for anything but Dani’s name and Dani’s face and Dani’s body.
There was no way to ever speak to Jorge about this, Dani knew.
Jorge didn’t do talking, and especially not with Dani.
He could have this though, a moment where he held every part of Jorge’s flaming body and soul enraptured, solely focused, and it was exhilarating.
The sex was good, great even, but that knowledge that the brilliant, blazing Jorge was his, just for a while, just until Jorge noticed himself, and withdrew again.
That was enough for Dani, enough to satisfy the craving deep inside. The growing addiction to Jorge’s attention.
It was enough for now.
Jorge groaned weakly as Dani tightened again around him, his own muscles worn and sore.
It was one thing to only fuck after races, nobody wanted to race with that kind of soreness, but they were always exhausted.
The desire to shove and manhandle and fuck like it was a fight always flickered and died after a few minutes, slowing into sensual, instinctual movements, bodies twisting together as one against both of their wills.
It felt good. Natural. Easy even, and that was something they were nothing like close to being able to address. So Jorge thrust back in harder, eyes closed so he didn’t have to stare at the soft, dark hair that tickled his face, and Dani’s breathing got shallower at the feeling of fingers flexing on his hips and hot breath against his ear.
Dani reached down then to take Jorge’s hands from his waist, dragging them up above them both to press against the wall over Dani’s head.
Jorge needed no more encouragement, leaning into the point of connection as leverage, chest plastered even closer against Dani’s back.
He tried to wrap his fingers around Dani’s slender wrists, pin them against the wall like that, but they twisted in his grip, instead lacing their fingers together tightly.
Jorge made no protest, the hot, slick body writhing under him, tight heat around him, and now an electricity crackling down his arms from where his pale fingers interlaced with tan.
They fit together like puzzle pieces. Not matching ones, maybe not even ones that should have been from the same puzzle, yet for some inexplicable reason, when lined up, everything slotted into place like they were crafted for it.
The way Dani’s hands felt in Jorge’s, the warmth, the solidness, that fizzing electric feeling that emanated from the point their skin connected, it felt more right than any sensation Jorge could place before.
Or, well, that wasn’t quite true. He had felt that same feeling before. A hand forced into his to shake, buried under the humiliation and bitterly faked cordiality. A dark blue glove reaching for him laid in the gravel, smothered in pain and anger.
Jorge wanted to hold Dani’s hands like this, or perhaps in any other conceivable way, so long as they were theirs, and they were connected.
And that was not something that could be addressed, not in the uncomfortable, dismissive farewells when they would slink back to their respective accommodation without a glance behind, and certainly not now, with Dani’s breaths coming faster between desperate pleas and murmurs of Jorge’s name.
This was enough for Jorge, to have Dani like this. Right now, this was enough.
4
2011
“Fuck - Jorge - Are you okay?”
As soon as he had slipped quietly into Jorge’s motorhome, Dani was on Jorge, ushering him to sit down with amusing attentiveness.
“Get off your feet, sit, let me make you a drink.” Dani was already pulling a mug from the small cupboard, familiar and comfortable in the other man’s space.
Jorge didn’t attempt to move, knowing well that Dani would protest and fuss until Jorge was sitting comfortably again.
And when had that happened? When did Dani become so familiar in Jorge’s room, so sure in each other’s actions?
When Dani set the mug down on the table, on the side of Jorge’s good hand without any prompting, Jorge knew it would be perfectly as he liked it.
“So how is it feeling?” Dani asked, with such genuine care wrapping his words that Jorge had to avert his eyes.
“I’m alright,” Jorge lied with a sigh, the sound weighted with a fondness that they both carefully ignored.
“I know you’re not, I saw the replay, your finger -”
Dani sat next to Jorge on the small sofa, his own hands fidgeting and pretty face creased into a frown.
“It looked bad.”
Jorge nodded slowly, one of his hands cradled delicately in his lap, the painkillers he’d been given not yet working their magic.
“It was a bad crash.” He admitted, still unused to the vulnerability, the way Dani looked like he actually cared.
Jorge didn’t talk about his injuries, didn’t discuss crashes beyond the courtesy to his race engineer.
It was a weakness, a soft spot, baring his neck and Achilles heel in one action.
His father had taught him well not to cry, not to cower or lick his own wounds where he could be seen. Keep his visor down to hide the grimace and his leathers on to hide the blood.
None of his teachings had prepared Jorge for Dani, huge dark eyes that he ached to trust, thick eyebrows pulled together in a frown of concern for Jorge.
Soft, warm hands, the callouses and scars now familiar enough for Jorge to trace in his mind, reaching out for him.
Jorge’s eyes fluttered closed for a second, before holding out his injured hand, an offering on the butcher’s stone.
He felt no knife, no sharp nails to strip away flesh, no cruel touch followed by crueler words.
Only careful hands cradling his own, fingers smoothing over his bare, fragile palm, supporting it with a tenderness that made Jorge want to weep.
It was a sensation he was becoming frighteningly familiar with, the way the slightest touch of Dani’s hands against Jorge’s would send fiery sparks down his tendons, flames licking through his veins, pumping the warmth and light directly into the hearth smouldering in Jorge’s chest, stoking the embers like bellows.
It never faded, still didn’t feel like any other touch he had experienced, even with the knowledge now of how those hands felt all over him.
When their fingers met, laced tightly together, or just brushing knuckles in passing, it was like no feeling on earth, an unworldly ripple of intensity through Jorge’s nerves and through his very soul.
As Dani frowned at Jorge’s bandaged finger like he wanted to personally treat and bind it himself, Jorge felt a rush of guilt for feeling fear at all.
Every learned instinct that had been beaten into him completely at angles to the way the embers in his chest flared with a comforting warmth the moment their hands touched.
Jorge was afraid, but the terror was a more gentle pain that the anger that had so long consumed him.
“It will need surgery?” Dani’s voice was soft, but Jorge still startled. Again came the urge to snatch his hand away, gritting his teeth and forcing it down, deliberately relaxing his arm in Dani’s careful hands.
“Yeah, definitely. I’ll lose the end. Hopefully not the whole finger.”
Dani hummed thoughtfully.
“Hopefully not.”
He brought Jorge’s hand up a little so he could press a featherlight kiss to the back of it.
It was new, the light touch of a mouth not for harsh words or kisses with more sharp teeth than lips. Jorge was trying not to become too familiar with the sensation.
The idea of becoming used to a loving touch, to expect gentleness, that was a greater fear than any.
“You don’t have to worry, this hand is perfectly operational.”
Jorge dived for cover behind a smirk and a crude hand gesture, fingers curled in the air, a mimicry of the motion that always made Dani’s knees buckle.
Dani just laughed, slapping Jorge’s hand away and ducking under the arm, curling into his usual place against Jorge’s side.
The comfortable silence settled over them in a way it never had done months ago, years since their first touch.
When Dani spoke again, it was quiet, mumbled. Jorge almost didn’t catch it, would have missed the way his chest seized and flared alight.
“It’s your ring finger though.”
5
2012
“- And this year, in the parc ferme of the Qatar Grand Prix, you embraced together. Can you just tell me, in some words, what is changed, and how it changed in your relationship?”
Dani couldn’t keep the wide grin off his face, already starting to laugh as he turned to Jorge, who wore a smirk that Dani knew far too well from years of experience.
As he leaned forward to answer, Dani internally braced himself.
“As you say, in 2003, we were like enemies. 2005, more enemies. 2008, even more enemies. Now we - we can have a hug, and maybe in 2 or 3 years we get married.”
It was telling of how the years had softened Dani, that even this new level of idiocy only made his face split into a wider smile, laughing despite himself.
He of course had to lean forward too, to say something to detract a little from Jorge’s eagerness to out them, but his shining eyes never left Jorge’s smug, beaming face.
It was a ridiculous feedback loop, one that they had echoed for so long now. Jorge would say or do something stupid or overly extravagant, Dani would laugh helplessly at him, and Jorge would glow brighter still with delight at making Dani laugh.
Dani still wasn’t sure which one of them was the bigger fool for it, but that didn’t matter at all when they were laying on the same sofa, curled in a shared bed, laughing into each other’s mouths.
It was so easy to make Jorge smile like that. Dani just had to grin with all his teeth, eyes crinkling and cheeks creasing with the unrestrained joy that forced itself out on his face, and Jorge would melt.
The reporters laughed along with them, shaking their heads, and the press conference moved along, but Dani’s smile was stuck wide and giddy.
Jorge next to him was still flushed, only enough to be blamed on the lights and pressure of the season, but Dani adored the glowing pink that shone over his partner’s round face.
It wasn’t like they hadn’t thought about it. Marriage.
It had been a couple of years now since everything started, and it was clear that this was not going to be something that passed for either man.
Despite this, it was not something they had yet spoken of, words skipping carefully around the topic, unacknowledged only in the lack of words.
It was one thing to know that they both wanted this forever, wanted to belong to each other in the eyes of the law as well as just to the walls of their rooms.
But to say it, to take that first breath and bring up the topic, was more difficult.
Dani was more of a realist, but they were both conscious enough to know that a public marriage would not be possible while they were still racing.
Dani also knew that Jorge was far too dramatic to settle for any less than a full blown performance, a wedding ceremony to rival royalty.
He kept himself quiet, comfortable enough in the knowledge that when they were both retired, Jorge would undoubtedly still be by his side, and they could finally be united in matrimony in whatever extravagant manner Jorge had planned.
This though, was an unexpected curveball to Dani’s perception of the topic.
To mention marriage at all was already new, but two or three years?
They’d both still be racing, fighting at their highest levels, completely in the public eye.
It was a joke, a throwaway comment for the journalists, but for Jorge to say it, some part of him must have thought about it. Must be thinking about it.
As surreptitiously as he could, very aware of the burning gazes of the camera lenses, Dani reached his hand under the table, grateful that their chairs were already close.
When his fingers brushed against Jorge’s, Dani felt the familiar jolt at the contact, as if every time he touched his partner, he gave him a static shock.
There was no flinch away though, not any more, as Jorge’s hand returned his grip tightly, warm and secure.
Jorge shivered a little at the contact, heart racing fast enough that he was sure Dani would be able to feel it.
He had almost regretted the words as they came out of his mouth for fear of Dani’s reaction.
To get married… It was something Jorge dreamed about like a Disney film, waiting for his handsome prince to slide a ring on his finger and declare their hearts and souls as one.
He wanted it to be Dani, ached for it, dreamed of holding his hands, looking into those enchanting dark eyes and calling him ‘my husband’.
They didn’t talk about marriage, Jorge knew that, held his tongue and swallowed it down.
When they were older, closer to the ends of their careers, Jorge hoped that Dani would be ready for it, but now?
The lingering fear of scaring Dani off was still one that crept in on the long nights he spent alone, staring at the ceiling and praying over and over again to please keep the one pure and good thing in his life.
But Dani’s hand was as steady as ever in his. As the firecrackers danced up Jorge’s arm, as they always did, the fire in his chest flared with something new.
A sudden hope, the dream of something he had worked so hard to repress for his whole career.
It had been a joke, a lighthearted quote for the sharks with their notebooks and cameras, but it was like saying that M word had opened a floodgate in Jorge’s chest, and his heart wouldn’t stop pounding.
Jorge barely heard another word from the press conference, drifting back to Dani’s motorhome with practiced ease, once he’d been released from yet another team meeting.
He collapsed onto the sofa with a long, tired sigh, sinking into Dani’s side like a life ring.
Dani just huffed a soft laugh in amusement, letting Jorge burrow against him like he wanted to climb inside Dani’s skin, face pressed against his neck.
It had taken a long time to get there, many years of prickly distance and miscommunication, but as soon as Jorge was comfortable enough to be clingy, there was barely a second that he didn’t insist on skin contact.
“In two or three years we get married, huh?” Dani started, and Jorge made a faint noise, ducking back out from under Dani’s arm with an expression almost like guilt.
“You know it couldn’t be a big event though, not if we aren’t coming out. It can’t be the celebration and party I know you’d want.”
“I don’t need that.” Jorge blinked up at him, confusion touching his gentle eyes. “Well, one day, sure, a huge event for it all, but that’d be in our mansion after we retire.”
“Our mansion?” Dani cut him off with a look of incredulity, before his voice dropped softer.
“Really though? You’d still marry me like that, something quiet?”
Jorge stared like his partner had gone insane.
“Dani, I’d marry you right now in a heartbeat, in your old clothes, no guests, no big party. You - you know that, right?
To Jorge’s horror, Dai’s eyes started shimmering with the threat of tears.
“I guess I do know that now. That’s - that’s good.”
“Good?” Jorge still fluttered anxiously.
“Yeah.” Suddenly a huge giddy smile split Dani’s face, eyes creasing and teeth bright. Jorge had never seen a someone look so beautiful.
“You want to marry me.” Dani giggled helplessly, the years they had known each other replaying like a fast forward screenplay, every moment of animosity, of rivalry, of bitter anger on both of their parts.
“You’re such a fool.”
Jorge just shook his head, unable to hold back his own smile, until Dani suddenly paused, expression dead serious.
“Jorge, just to clarify, that better not have been your proposal. I’m expecting a lot better.”
Jorge balked, nodding quickly. “Yes, yes, of course.”
Over his life, Jorge had dreamed a hundred ways of proposing to a shadowed figure that finally, over years of waiting, had materialised into the beautiful form of his beloved Dani.
Jorge had a lot of ideas.
+1
2015
Jorge’s hands shook so hard he could barely do up the buttons on his shirt, missing the holes and slipping as he tried to ease the small buttons through.
Eventually his sister took pity on him through her laughter, her own dress and hair already perfect.
She patiently did up the last couple of buttons, and didn’t even ask before starting to tie his bow tie for him, there was zero chance Jorge was in a state to be able to do that.
Jorge obediently stayed still and let her fuss over him, smoothing down his suit jacket and straightening the little spray of flowers in his breast pocket, before tutting over his hair.
“You think he’ll be there?” Jorge asked, voice wavering a little.
His sister sighed, long suffering. “Do I think that your fiance will be waiting at the end of the aisle? Yes, yes Jorge, he will be there. Idiot.”
“Do I look okay?”
“Yes, Jorge, you look lovely. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“What if he says no?”
She didn’t even deign that one with an answer, just a hard, withering stare.
“Right, right.” Jorge took a long, shuddering breath, looking vaguely nauseous.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” She replied with a fond eye roll. “Go get your ass out there and marry your man.”
Jorge tried to take another deep breath, but appeared to choke on it, coughing violently.
His sister shoved a glass of water into his hands, exchanging it with his bouquet once Jorge had taken a few sips.
It was a beautiful thing, Jorge’s idea, a combination of deep blues and reds, colour picked from his Yamaha, combined with brighter reds and orange from the Repsol Honda.
Dani had laughed at the cliche of it, but insisted they used it, kissing away the waver of unsureness on Jorge’s face.
Now the small chapel that Jorge would soon enter was decorated beautifully in their colours, not overly extravagant, understated in its elegance.
Flowers filled the empty space, a simple way to create an instantly graceful look to the room, a bower hanging over the altar.
There had been a lot of discussion over how much decoration and ceremony would go into this event, only settled when Dani put his foot down, saying that he would plan this entire thing, and allow Jorge full creative freedom on the big public wedding after they’d retired.
Jorge didn’t mind too much. While not as interested in the aesthetics of the whole thing, Dani cared enough about this that Jorge knew he’d still do a good job.
And even if Dani hadn’t, with Jorge’s heart pounding so hard he could barely breathe, he wasn’t exactly looking at the lighting or the shape of confetti.
It had been a difficult decision to not tell his father about his wedding, and an even harder one not to tell his mother, but as Jorge’s younger sister linked her arm through his, the pair standing before the large wooden doors, Jorge finally exhaled in relief.
No family drama would ruin this moment for him, no fits from his father, ranting about distractions to his career, no disappointment and sadness from his mother over more secrets.
Just his sister, and the walk down the aisle.
Jorge pushed the doors, which swung open silently with ease, and the soft piano music swelled from the speakers placed carefully in the corners of the room.
Dani promised that he would have loved a live musician, but for this to be as little trouble for their real lives, the consequences of more witnesses was more than they wanted to risk.
Jorge’s sister and Dani’s brother as witnesses, and a mutual friend who was a registered officiant.
Small, quiet, but perfect.
The room, sure enough, was beautiful, bathed in soft lighting through stained glass, filtering pastel colours over the flowers lining the aisle, but Jorge didn’t see any of it.
Just Dani.
Dani standing there, waiting for him, looking so achingly handsome Jorge wanted to cry.
His suit was perfectly tailored, fitted close in a way that made Jorge’s heart skip a beat, the deep blackness of the fabric broken by the little flowers in his breast pocket, matching the ones Jorge’s sister had just straightened.
When Dani looked up and finally met Jorge’s eyes, it was all he could do to not sprint down the aisle right then.
The unfiltered adoration written across his face, eyes swimming with pure, undisguised love. His smile stretched helplessly wide, teeth flashing, cheeks and eyes creased with the force of it, Jorge could have sworn the sun itself was shining from Dani’s face.
The walk was painfully slow, Jorge’s sister’s hand steady on his arm, almost having to hold him back, keeping their steps in time with the gentle music.
Finally though, Jorge was released, his sister stepping away to the side, leaving him standing there at the altar, face to face with the man he had somehow fallen in love with, against every force of fate and their own sensibilities.
In spite of everything that they had done in their lives, and everything that had been done to them.
Jorge reached for Dani, hands outstretched, palms innocently facing upwards, waiting.
Dani visibly softened, eyes shining already with unshed tears, and slid his hands into Jorge’s slotting together like puzzle pieces into place.
As their palms met, Jorge had to close his eyes, the rush of emotion almost enough to buckle him.
After so many years, he still felt the electricity, the lick of flames dancing up his arms a comforting warmth now, familiar, like a childhood blanket.
It didn’t quite feel the same, couldn’t do, not with so many years on them now. He no longer felt the fear, the instinctive recoil, no alarm at the sensation.
Just a warm reassurance, the knowledge that he was with Dani, and that Dani had him.
Nothing could hurt Jorge when his hands were finally interlaced with the man who already owned him, heart, soul, and mind, and very soon, finally his in name.
The first time their hands had found each other, the moment Jorge’s heart began to beat in time with another, felt like longer ago than the ten years it had been.
The red and blue bikes laying in the gravel together, a blurry figure in blue reaching down for him, a selfless act, and the first day of the rest of his life.
A life dedicated to Dani, to chasing him, to being chased, to fighting, and learning, and slowly, slowly, falling.
Dani gently squeezed Jorge’s hands, smile soft and eyes deep and warm.
“You ready?”
“Yeah. I am.”