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F1 Fic (old): Contagious (Montoya/Raikkonen)
Title: Contagious
Fandom: F1
Pairing: Kimi Raikkonen/Juan-Pablo Montoya
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: All of this is purely fictional.
There is tension afterward in the garage. This, of course, is nothing new – there has been tension for months now as the calculators tap away point margins and analyse victory potential. Unlike most of the drivers, Montoya doesn’t feel resentful of the gear of the McLaren team towards his teammate; straightforward thinking tells him that Kimi has had the better year and deserves whatever focus he gets. He’ll be better next year. Nothing to worry about. What bothers him is that where the team are united as mechanics and designers and number-crunchers, all under an anxiety-umbrella, he and Kimi are drawing further and further apart. Regardless of the focus given to him by his team, Kimi has a different focus in his eyes – one that is isolated, independent and cold. His tone is more clipped than ever, his patience for interviews and press conferences wearing thinner by the day. Ron knows not to keep him for longer than is necessary; knows how to analyse speedily, the Finnish way that he learnt with Mika. The engineers know not to engage in too much small talk when the lead driver prefers a quiet, concentrated atmosphere. The two sides of the McLaren garage can be distinctly identified now as city and country; one trembles with noiseless peace, the other buzzes with carefree charm. It doesn’t bother anybody else. Just Montoya; whose temperament does not lie well with such withdrawal. There is no emotion here. There is no shouting, like there was with Ralf. No drinking, no parties, no banter. Just that small vibration of inky insecurity, ebbing away into the garage walls. The one nobody talks about.
There’s been no sex for three months. That’s what bothers Montoya.
The first time it happened was a couple of seasons ago. There was something about Raikkonen that Montoya liked the look of; the knife-edge of aged determination in a young face, perhaps. The slant of his eyes toward everything; that superiority, almost arrogant way he carried himself. Montoya had long been able to look past himself and know that often the most bullish characters can appear mice and that was certainly true of Kimi. Despite his heritage and his climate there was a spark about him that raged with belief, with confidence, with entitlement. The steadiness in his voice and the tilt of his chin, always upward and poised, ready, defiant; it all caught Montoya’s eye, every inch of barely disguised innocence. Their styles were radically different; Raikkonen’s clean precision to Montoya’s rough edges and their interview techniques reflected it. Their vocals. Montoya had soon learnt that Kimi was no more forthcoming in the bedroom but he couldn’t remember exactly how soon; which country, which race, which result. Theirs had always been a something aside from the racetrack, aside from the euphoria and agony of triumph and failure. For most, being in the same team would facilitate a relationship, carve it under new dynamics, certainly, but allow an ease of access and intimacy that saw many secret partnerships flourish. For Montoya and Raikkonen, the opposite seemed to occur.
At the beginning, it wasn’t too much of a problem. They started anew. Raikkonen had a way of blunting his memory to any inconvenience and Montoya didn’t mind the pretence of relearning him; the pleasure of breaking him in again. Only the look in Kimi’s eyes was a warning – and it stopped him saying as much aloud. The first few races went without difficulty; there were no clashes in the garage and no hitches behind the scenes, though Montoya knew that the partnership had lost some of its earlier fire. Kimi was a different driver; stuffed with ambition and hungering for more. Some dreams he’d made true and it had made him greedier; sharpened some of his early naïve, some of the clumsy touches that Montoya had liked so much. As the season went on, it became obvious that he saw him as a teammate as well as a lover and discomfort edged in its elbows. Kimi was not someone who had a natural relationship with teammates. Like Michael, Kimi was self-isolating, introverted, selfish. He paid fellow drivers very little attention and regarded Montoya with indifference on race days. It wasn’t jealousy, wasn’t even edgy rivalry – it was the way Kimi operated, Finnish blinds drawn down on whatever strategies Montoya’s engineers were brewing. He refused to allow distraction to make him insecure and across the garage, his eyes remained cool and aside, body still and confident. And Montoya, used to the histrionics of he and Ralf, hated every minute of it.
He’d asked him about it; dragged him into a corner while the guys were busy around them. “Am I not a good enough driver?” he’d growled, “Not a rival to you or a benchmark? You don’t want to work with me?” Blue eyes had lifted to his face; static and feeling, just a little. “This is my team,” he’d said simply. “This is your team. This is not our team.” The curl of Montoya’s eyebrows had been enough to convey that he was stung. “You distract me,” Kimi had added, without further clarification, before heading off for his water bottle. With a small smirk, Montoya had turned back to his car and figured, hopelessly naïve, that things would get better from there. Only Kimi had left the circuit early that day and by the next race, he was concentrated on a different man entirely. Fernando Alonso became Kimi’s focus and the season unfurled into various wins and losses exchanged bitterly between Renault and McLaren. Kimi’s mood became unstable and so it became rigid, determined to remain stoic and unfeeling and successful. His body was nervous and agitated, his eyes very much alone. When he won, he allowed himself a mediated smile before his concentration fixed upon the next race. When he lost, Montoya almost preferred it – because sometimes he’d see the darkening of his eyes that he remembered, and the clench of distressed hands as Kimi stormed through the garage in the aftermath of Alonso’s victories. As his moods became more unpredictable, his driving only became more precise; his qualifying laps moulded into masterpieces and his race pace was the product of smoothness, of knowingness – not of pushing hard. Kimi became a master of finding the limit and remaining on it as a tightrope walker does; not allowing for trembles, ignorant of everything but of the single, invisible line. He became better and better as behind the scenes, he became quieter and quieter.
There are five races left to the season and now Kimi barely says a word; has become the machine that so many have mocked him for. Whilst Montoya has the freedom to be explosive, Kimi seems to be starving himself of emotional expression; fearful of it, unsure of it. He knows that it, like Montoya, will distract him. Distraction is not what he needs. And as Kimi sits, taking his boots off, Montoya prides himself on this – and how good he’s become at reading the small details, what with the absence of the greater ones. It has not been a good race for him, has Turkey, and he has a score to settle with Monteiro later; but there are pressing things on his mind as he watches the way Raikkonen unravels his laces; fingers gentle and thoughtful. Montoya remembers those hands better than anything; the curve of bitten-nailed fingers over plains of tanned skin; the press of chilled white against dark bronze. Kimi is so painfully slight that his hands are mere mountaineers when they brush over Montoya’s stomach, scrape his hips, curve around his cock. And yet they are not fragile; they are not weak, Montoya has never had to wrap around them as he had to do with Ralf to work them harder. He has never had to dig his nails into Kimi’s wrist to say ‘faster’. When Kimi isn’t thinking about it, or thinking about the track, about Alonso, about the goddamn team, Kimi can be as wild as the rest of them, as strong as an ox, as heavy as Montoya and twice as intense. It is ironic that when they argue and when they fuck, Montoya can yell and gesticulate but nothing is as arresting as Kimi’s pale, blazing stare and the way his tongue rests against the curve of his upper lip.
And he so badly, badly wants that – wants the intensity, wants the connection, wants Kimi to feel something other than statistics and cold mathematical precision.
“Kimi,” he says softly, out of listening difference of the cheerful mechanics, collecting together the day’s success.
“What?” Kimi doesn’t look at him; rests his boots down next to each other, tucks the laces in.
“Don’t leave without me.” He stuffs his gloves into his helmet, weight on one hip. “I want to talk to you.”
“About?” Kimi queries, with his eyes finally coming up to meet Montoya and suddenly it’s like the world tilts on its axis, and Montoya loathes himself for being so intoxicated. He shrugs simply, placing his helmet onto a nearby shelf and pulling at the collar of his overalls.
“Things you don’t want to talk about here.”
It is enough for Kimi, who follows him into the back without so much as a second thought, boots hanging from their laces in his hands. Montoya leads him into his the tight confines of his room and waves a hand around to tell him to sit down, shrugging off the top half of his overalls with his back to him. When he turns, Kimi is looking at him and Montoya doesn’t know how long his eyes have been on him but knowing Kimi, it is probably the entire time. The thought is a momentary electric volt and he swallows, narrowing his gaze.
“What do you want?” Kimi says dully, ignoring the brief hostility.
“I can do this as a teammate,” Montoya starts, “but I think you’d just call bullshit on me. I know you don’t like teammates. I know you don’t like taking advice. So I’ll do this as someone who…” He pauses, trying to find words.
“You’re not fucking me.” Kimi interrupts, bluntly. His face tells Montoya speaks of nothing other than the neutrality of the statement. Montoya winces.
“Well, yeah. And that’s the problem.”
“You want to fuck me.” It is an assertion, half-phrased as a question. Kimi’s voice is vague like that, particularly when he is speaking English; their only common tongue.
“Fuck, Kimi – I…do you have to make me sound like a caveman? I know we’re not fucking married but I’d appreciate it if you credited me as something more than an animal.” Montoya can feel his temper flaring but he nudges it away, frowning. This is Monteiro’s anger. It is not Kimi’s. It is to Kimi’s advantage when they argue that he looks brittle and gentle; it was only with training that Montoya could shout at him at all. It is hard, even when Kimi is cold, to forget the slow stirrings of protection that he feels for him. The tremors of possession.
“But that’s the problem. That we’re not fucking.”
Montoya looks at him. “You won’t let me in.”
“You distract me.”
“No. I channel you.”
Kimi looks at him sceptically. “Channel what, exactly? Emotion isn’t exactly running off me, is it.”
“You’d be surprised,” Montoya says, shifting a bit closer. Kimi leans back; looks at him out of the corner of his eye. He sighs heftily.
“You don’t want to fuck me anymore?” Montoya attempts to bring the conversation back onto an even level; vaguely alarmed at the prospect of an in-depth discussion of Raikkonen’s emotions, present or otherwise.
“Yeah. I do. But you’re distracting. It’s distracting.”
“You think abstaining is going to win you the championship?”
“What’s abstaining?”
“Er…in English; blue balls.”
“Oh. I dunno. But I have to win the championship. I can’t be distracted. I need to do what I can to beat him. You don’t understand, Juan-Pablo.”
“I do understand. I’ve been in the contention for a title before, thanks. Only I didn’t have to become a monk to win races. You can fuck, Kimi. You can fuck me and forget about it, if that’s what you want, but it’s not going to stop you focussing. Nothing would. The whole fucking track could be on fire and you’d still be trying to weasel out another quarter of a second. You’re a stubborn bastard. I could give you the greatest fuck of your life and you’d still spring out of bed and walk into work and have your eye on absolutely fucking everything, and beat me by a clear half second.”
“I’m not that bad.”
“Earlier this year I’d just made you come and you said, 30 seconds later, ‘D’ya think they’ve got those new wing developments in yet?’”
“That was an accident.”
“You meant to say, ‘That was fantastic, Juan-Pablo. I’d beg you for seconds but I need to prolong this state of nirvana for a few minutes more.’?”
“Not exactly.”
“Well, then.”
Kimi looks at him and Montoya knows he is checking for a smile. The thought warms him; the subtlety of Kimi’s feelings revealed in tiny gestures. When he raises his eyes to Kimi’s face he sees a depth in his eyes; no longer pale, they are flecked dark blue and his lips are wet. He takes a breath and when he says it, it is all Montoya can do to stay rooted to the spot. “I remember that night. Your hair was dripping sweat onto my neck and you were…rough. Really rough. I was asking you for it. I was angry, because…you’d won, and you were…it was…adrenaline, and…it was fast. In my room. Against the…”
“Yes,” Montoya says, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Wall, yes.” He can’t bear to look at him because he knows what he is thinking, and he knows what he wants, and none of these things are wise to look at directly because they are like the sun and will blind you to your seat if you’re not careful. And then Kimi says, softly, with a growl, and Montoya’s breath turns over.
“I’m angry now.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not going to win the title.”
“Because he’s better than you?”
“No. Because he’s won more than I have. It makes me angry. It makes me angry that we can’t do anything because it’s the past and if it hadn’t been for this, and that, and Europe and Germany…and…fuck, please. Please. I’m…this…fuck.”
Montoya realises that his hand is halfway up Kimi’s leg. The other man is shaking. His eyes are blazing. Kimi has no idea how angry he really is, underneath everything. Montoya suddenly understands that it is Kimi’s way, denial, because it is safer to feel the muted after-effects later on than the intensity of a feeling when it is ripe and bleeding. He has no idea, the idiot, of what’s been underneath the surface; what’s been there, alongside his blood and his lust and his heart. Kimi has a way of ignoring inconvenient emotions. Kimi has a way of putting off what’s good for him. Kimi has a way of looking at him like he’s all he wants in the world and it’s innocence and knowledge all at once and he can’t help it – he has to capture him, has to have him, has to put a mark on him so that nobody else can get at him. He reaches out and kisses himself into Kimi’s lips, all the way through to his bones, to his bullet-heartbeat, to the centre of the volcano that Kimi won’t recognise is there unless it is Montoya pointing it out. Kimi’s hand sneaks its way around his neck and scratches, hard, and Montoya knows just how angry and despairing he is – just how angry and despairing he was when Montoya won, when Alonso won, when things never went as he’d planned them to. Selfish to the core, and vulnerable, and shaking in fierce scratches. Kimi is a conundrum and he’ll never make sense.
“Lie down,” Montoya growls, smacking his wrist lightly. Kimi ignores him, begins to unravel the brash silver coils of his overalls, faintly amused, as Montoya turns him and kisses into his shoulders and his back; nipping the nape of his neck. Once Kimi is done there is a pile of interlacing colours on the floor, and he starts on Montoya; nimble, blunt fingers flickering here and there as Montoya’s hands drag into his hair and their kisses go on; wet-mouthed and fast-breathed. Kimi’s skin is faintly wet from exertion and there are beads of it against his collarbone that disappear fuzzily into Montoya’s chin as he pushes him down onto the narrow surface of the bed. There is a brief moment where he considers everything in a second; foreplay and technique and all the hotspots that turn Kimi on but right now, all he wants is something to feel close, and urgent, and hot – and there’s later, there’s going to be later, for sure. He does not pin Kimi’s hands down as he normally would, nor does he tease him with clockwise, anticlockwise, tongue-strokes to his nipples. He merely chuckles roughly at the way Kimi’s hips are pushing into his stomach without any particular inhibition; cock hardening somewhere around his bellybutton, smiling at friction with closed-eyed sighs. Nudging his legs further apart with a knee, Montoya settles between them and makes short haste of kissing down the bloodline of his neck, nibbling his collarbone, holding slim hips in firm hands. Holding him still. When his mouth reaches Kimi’s navel, the other man has reared up so that his back curves beautifully, a ragged moan lost in his lungs.
“More,” he says with all the simplicity in the world. “More.”
Montoya is, after some thought, not in the mood to argue with that. With one hand, he pulls Kimi closer to him, forcing the breath out of him, tracing a hand around the base of his cock with no real intention as he rummages in the desk drawers for something to prepare him with. It is one of the parts that Kimi seems to like best; he wriggles against it, gets off on it, jerks and writhes to suit himself. He doesn’t care much for being adequately loosened but he likes the feel of Montoya’s fingers, which can curve in ways that his cock cannot, and he usually prolongs the madness long enough for Montoya to get quite exasperated with him. This is what he does this time, despite their mutual bloodlust, chasing the limit as he always does. He knows what will send him overboard. He knows and keeps back, teases himself, fucks himself on Montoya’s fingers, breath throaty and hot against the back of his hand. Montoya watches him until he can’t stand it, needs to be in on it, and jerks his fingertips dangerously against Kimi’s prostate, teaching him a lesson about teasing and vengeance. Kimi does him a disservice by holding back the squeak that threatens to leave him, hooking a foot somewhere into Montoya’s shoulderblade and grunting amicably, “Well, fuck me then.”
There is a second where Montoya relishes it; the words he wasn’t sure he’d hear until the season ended and the ease of testing ebbed in. He relishes the look on Kimi’s face; that abandoned black-eyed sensuality. He relishes everything from wiggling toes to hot breath to soft thighs and then he can’t stand the relishing anymore than he can stand the way Kimi is open to him, and he finds the spot on his neck that always makes him boneless as he eases his way inside him. It is there that the calm descends, taking them away from the breathless exhilaration of heat to a hedonistic appreciation of the senses and Montoya looks into Kimi’s eyes when he’s at the hilt, giving him time to adjust. They are barely two noses apart, his hands flat on the pillow, and neither of them says a word as everything else vanishes – everything becomes silent and still and right. He cannot think what to say, besides, and it doesn’t matter because he probably shouldn’t, anyway. Kimi looks at him, curls a hand away from the barred headboard to the nape of his neck; supportive, sympathetic, uniting. Kimi knows what he feels; shares it. Kimi understands. And he wants him. Wants him in the little ‘please’ that leaves his lips, the slight jerk upwards of his hips.
Knowing that it can’t possibly last long, not with three months under their belts, Montoya doesn’t take long to find the rhythm that is unique to them; the one that Kimi likes because he’s selfish and independent and likes to fuck as much as he as fucked and to thrust, to move, to drown. It isn’t long before Kimi’s faster than Montoya is and he’s gasping in sweat and adrenaline, his eyes squeezed tight. Montoya’s breath is ragged in his ear and he’s pushing his hips downwards, disappearing somewhere between the world and Kimi, dissolving in sensations that have too long been denied him. Neither of them speak; their communication is grunts and small cries and the fumbling of hands around each other. As one of Montoya’s hands moves to Kimi’s hair, nails almost entrenched in his scalp, Kimi seems to sense something in the air of this; a different sound wave or scent and his breath becomes staccato. Montoya recognises this very clearly as inevitability; notes that Kimi is not trying as much to push his hips back but to meet them, to keep Montoya inside him, to edge him closer to where all the pleasure is, throbbing and hot and wet. Kimi’s fist is curling around his cock; knuckles brushing Montoya’s ribs. Montoya leans closer to him and takes the initiative; the one that he knows will never come again. Kimi always touches himself; it is his independence, his way. And Montoya has seen enough of Kimi’s way to dislike it, and so his fingers are brash and demonstrative when they wrap around Kimi’s own and Kimi makes a noise like thunder in his throat. Montoya can’t tell whether he is angry or pleased but Kimi makes no move to stop him and instead only moves harder, breath the sound of hard rain.
It is only through stubbornness in the end that Montoya manages to hold himself back until Kimi makes that strangled noise of pig-headedness and throws his hips up to meet Montoya’s, shuddering still on a bow-bent angle. He allows himself the tingle of hearing Kimi choke out a half-name, a half-word that he can’t get to the end of, before everything in his own body hums and constricts and winds up so tight that his breath doesn’t come until everything ebbs away in a sudden blaze and he cries out in almost-surprise. They’re like that for a minute or so; entwined and soaking wet and muscle-tightened euphoric, until the trembling aftermath sets in and Kimi shifts just a little so that Montoya can pull out and collapse halfway beside him. The air is full of breath and exhaustion and moving ribcages until Kimi turns his face to look at the Colombian; blonde hair sweat-matted to his head. Montoya is somewhere in closed-eyed bliss and does not see it; does not recognise the look in Kimi’s eyes that speaks of months of emotion, months of pain and disappointment and false political correctness. He doesn’t see the rubble in Kimi’s race; the poison that is dripping out and away, far away, from his body. He doesn’t see the freedom that rises from sex-drenched skin. He doesn’t see what he’s done, at all. And he doesn’t see what Kimi can’t say – that he needed him, despite the arguing and the distractions and the fact that Montoya is the only teammate Kimi’s had who he’s considered a rival. He doesn’t see any of it. And so Kimi reaches timidly for Montoya’s hand.
Fandom: F1
Pairing: Kimi Raikkonen/Juan-Pablo Montoya
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: All of this is purely fictional.
There is tension afterward in the garage. This, of course, is nothing new – there has been tension for months now as the calculators tap away point margins and analyse victory potential. Unlike most of the drivers, Montoya doesn’t feel resentful of the gear of the McLaren team towards his teammate; straightforward thinking tells him that Kimi has had the better year and deserves whatever focus he gets. He’ll be better next year. Nothing to worry about. What bothers him is that where the team are united as mechanics and designers and number-crunchers, all under an anxiety-umbrella, he and Kimi are drawing further and further apart. Regardless of the focus given to him by his team, Kimi has a different focus in his eyes – one that is isolated, independent and cold. His tone is more clipped than ever, his patience for interviews and press conferences wearing thinner by the day. Ron knows not to keep him for longer than is necessary; knows how to analyse speedily, the Finnish way that he learnt with Mika. The engineers know not to engage in too much small talk when the lead driver prefers a quiet, concentrated atmosphere. The two sides of the McLaren garage can be distinctly identified now as city and country; one trembles with noiseless peace, the other buzzes with carefree charm. It doesn’t bother anybody else. Just Montoya; whose temperament does not lie well with such withdrawal. There is no emotion here. There is no shouting, like there was with Ralf. No drinking, no parties, no banter. Just that small vibration of inky insecurity, ebbing away into the garage walls. The one nobody talks about.
There’s been no sex for three months. That’s what bothers Montoya.
The first time it happened was a couple of seasons ago. There was something about Raikkonen that Montoya liked the look of; the knife-edge of aged determination in a young face, perhaps. The slant of his eyes toward everything; that superiority, almost arrogant way he carried himself. Montoya had long been able to look past himself and know that often the most bullish characters can appear mice and that was certainly true of Kimi. Despite his heritage and his climate there was a spark about him that raged with belief, with confidence, with entitlement. The steadiness in his voice and the tilt of his chin, always upward and poised, ready, defiant; it all caught Montoya’s eye, every inch of barely disguised innocence. Their styles were radically different; Raikkonen’s clean precision to Montoya’s rough edges and their interview techniques reflected it. Their vocals. Montoya had soon learnt that Kimi was no more forthcoming in the bedroom but he couldn’t remember exactly how soon; which country, which race, which result. Theirs had always been a something aside from the racetrack, aside from the euphoria and agony of triumph and failure. For most, being in the same team would facilitate a relationship, carve it under new dynamics, certainly, but allow an ease of access and intimacy that saw many secret partnerships flourish. For Montoya and Raikkonen, the opposite seemed to occur.
At the beginning, it wasn’t too much of a problem. They started anew. Raikkonen had a way of blunting his memory to any inconvenience and Montoya didn’t mind the pretence of relearning him; the pleasure of breaking him in again. Only the look in Kimi’s eyes was a warning – and it stopped him saying as much aloud. The first few races went without difficulty; there were no clashes in the garage and no hitches behind the scenes, though Montoya knew that the partnership had lost some of its earlier fire. Kimi was a different driver; stuffed with ambition and hungering for more. Some dreams he’d made true and it had made him greedier; sharpened some of his early naïve, some of the clumsy touches that Montoya had liked so much. As the season went on, it became obvious that he saw him as a teammate as well as a lover and discomfort edged in its elbows. Kimi was not someone who had a natural relationship with teammates. Like Michael, Kimi was self-isolating, introverted, selfish. He paid fellow drivers very little attention and regarded Montoya with indifference on race days. It wasn’t jealousy, wasn’t even edgy rivalry – it was the way Kimi operated, Finnish blinds drawn down on whatever strategies Montoya’s engineers were brewing. He refused to allow distraction to make him insecure and across the garage, his eyes remained cool and aside, body still and confident. And Montoya, used to the histrionics of he and Ralf, hated every minute of it.
He’d asked him about it; dragged him into a corner while the guys were busy around them. “Am I not a good enough driver?” he’d growled, “Not a rival to you or a benchmark? You don’t want to work with me?” Blue eyes had lifted to his face; static and feeling, just a little. “This is my team,” he’d said simply. “This is your team. This is not our team.” The curl of Montoya’s eyebrows had been enough to convey that he was stung. “You distract me,” Kimi had added, without further clarification, before heading off for his water bottle. With a small smirk, Montoya had turned back to his car and figured, hopelessly naïve, that things would get better from there. Only Kimi had left the circuit early that day and by the next race, he was concentrated on a different man entirely. Fernando Alonso became Kimi’s focus and the season unfurled into various wins and losses exchanged bitterly between Renault and McLaren. Kimi’s mood became unstable and so it became rigid, determined to remain stoic and unfeeling and successful. His body was nervous and agitated, his eyes very much alone. When he won, he allowed himself a mediated smile before his concentration fixed upon the next race. When he lost, Montoya almost preferred it – because sometimes he’d see the darkening of his eyes that he remembered, and the clench of distressed hands as Kimi stormed through the garage in the aftermath of Alonso’s victories. As his moods became more unpredictable, his driving only became more precise; his qualifying laps moulded into masterpieces and his race pace was the product of smoothness, of knowingness – not of pushing hard. Kimi became a master of finding the limit and remaining on it as a tightrope walker does; not allowing for trembles, ignorant of everything but of the single, invisible line. He became better and better as behind the scenes, he became quieter and quieter.
There are five races left to the season and now Kimi barely says a word; has become the machine that so many have mocked him for. Whilst Montoya has the freedom to be explosive, Kimi seems to be starving himself of emotional expression; fearful of it, unsure of it. He knows that it, like Montoya, will distract him. Distraction is not what he needs. And as Kimi sits, taking his boots off, Montoya prides himself on this – and how good he’s become at reading the small details, what with the absence of the greater ones. It has not been a good race for him, has Turkey, and he has a score to settle with Monteiro later; but there are pressing things on his mind as he watches the way Raikkonen unravels his laces; fingers gentle and thoughtful. Montoya remembers those hands better than anything; the curve of bitten-nailed fingers over plains of tanned skin; the press of chilled white against dark bronze. Kimi is so painfully slight that his hands are mere mountaineers when they brush over Montoya’s stomach, scrape his hips, curve around his cock. And yet they are not fragile; they are not weak, Montoya has never had to wrap around them as he had to do with Ralf to work them harder. He has never had to dig his nails into Kimi’s wrist to say ‘faster’. When Kimi isn’t thinking about it, or thinking about the track, about Alonso, about the goddamn team, Kimi can be as wild as the rest of them, as strong as an ox, as heavy as Montoya and twice as intense. It is ironic that when they argue and when they fuck, Montoya can yell and gesticulate but nothing is as arresting as Kimi’s pale, blazing stare and the way his tongue rests against the curve of his upper lip.
And he so badly, badly wants that – wants the intensity, wants the connection, wants Kimi to feel something other than statistics and cold mathematical precision.
“Kimi,” he says softly, out of listening difference of the cheerful mechanics, collecting together the day’s success.
“What?” Kimi doesn’t look at him; rests his boots down next to each other, tucks the laces in.
“Don’t leave without me.” He stuffs his gloves into his helmet, weight on one hip. “I want to talk to you.”
“About?” Kimi queries, with his eyes finally coming up to meet Montoya and suddenly it’s like the world tilts on its axis, and Montoya loathes himself for being so intoxicated. He shrugs simply, placing his helmet onto a nearby shelf and pulling at the collar of his overalls.
“Things you don’t want to talk about here.”
It is enough for Kimi, who follows him into the back without so much as a second thought, boots hanging from their laces in his hands. Montoya leads him into his the tight confines of his room and waves a hand around to tell him to sit down, shrugging off the top half of his overalls with his back to him. When he turns, Kimi is looking at him and Montoya doesn’t know how long his eyes have been on him but knowing Kimi, it is probably the entire time. The thought is a momentary electric volt and he swallows, narrowing his gaze.
“What do you want?” Kimi says dully, ignoring the brief hostility.
“I can do this as a teammate,” Montoya starts, “but I think you’d just call bullshit on me. I know you don’t like teammates. I know you don’t like taking advice. So I’ll do this as someone who…” He pauses, trying to find words.
“You’re not fucking me.” Kimi interrupts, bluntly. His face tells Montoya speaks of nothing other than the neutrality of the statement. Montoya winces.
“Well, yeah. And that’s the problem.”
“You want to fuck me.” It is an assertion, half-phrased as a question. Kimi’s voice is vague like that, particularly when he is speaking English; their only common tongue.
“Fuck, Kimi – I…do you have to make me sound like a caveman? I know we’re not fucking married but I’d appreciate it if you credited me as something more than an animal.” Montoya can feel his temper flaring but he nudges it away, frowning. This is Monteiro’s anger. It is not Kimi’s. It is to Kimi’s advantage when they argue that he looks brittle and gentle; it was only with training that Montoya could shout at him at all. It is hard, even when Kimi is cold, to forget the slow stirrings of protection that he feels for him. The tremors of possession.
“But that’s the problem. That we’re not fucking.”
Montoya looks at him. “You won’t let me in.”
“You distract me.”
“No. I channel you.”
Kimi looks at him sceptically. “Channel what, exactly? Emotion isn’t exactly running off me, is it.”
“You’d be surprised,” Montoya says, shifting a bit closer. Kimi leans back; looks at him out of the corner of his eye. He sighs heftily.
“You don’t want to fuck me anymore?” Montoya attempts to bring the conversation back onto an even level; vaguely alarmed at the prospect of an in-depth discussion of Raikkonen’s emotions, present or otherwise.
“Yeah. I do. But you’re distracting. It’s distracting.”
“You think abstaining is going to win you the championship?”
“What’s abstaining?”
“Er…in English; blue balls.”
“Oh. I dunno. But I have to win the championship. I can’t be distracted. I need to do what I can to beat him. You don’t understand, Juan-Pablo.”
“I do understand. I’ve been in the contention for a title before, thanks. Only I didn’t have to become a monk to win races. You can fuck, Kimi. You can fuck me and forget about it, if that’s what you want, but it’s not going to stop you focussing. Nothing would. The whole fucking track could be on fire and you’d still be trying to weasel out another quarter of a second. You’re a stubborn bastard. I could give you the greatest fuck of your life and you’d still spring out of bed and walk into work and have your eye on absolutely fucking everything, and beat me by a clear half second.”
“I’m not that bad.”
“Earlier this year I’d just made you come and you said, 30 seconds later, ‘D’ya think they’ve got those new wing developments in yet?’”
“That was an accident.”
“You meant to say, ‘That was fantastic, Juan-Pablo. I’d beg you for seconds but I need to prolong this state of nirvana for a few minutes more.’?”
“Not exactly.”
“Well, then.”
Kimi looks at him and Montoya knows he is checking for a smile. The thought warms him; the subtlety of Kimi’s feelings revealed in tiny gestures. When he raises his eyes to Kimi’s face he sees a depth in his eyes; no longer pale, they are flecked dark blue and his lips are wet. He takes a breath and when he says it, it is all Montoya can do to stay rooted to the spot. “I remember that night. Your hair was dripping sweat onto my neck and you were…rough. Really rough. I was asking you for it. I was angry, because…you’d won, and you were…it was…adrenaline, and…it was fast. In my room. Against the…”
“Yes,” Montoya says, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Wall, yes.” He can’t bear to look at him because he knows what he is thinking, and he knows what he wants, and none of these things are wise to look at directly because they are like the sun and will blind you to your seat if you’re not careful. And then Kimi says, softly, with a growl, and Montoya’s breath turns over.
“I’m angry now.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not going to win the title.”
“Because he’s better than you?”
“No. Because he’s won more than I have. It makes me angry. It makes me angry that we can’t do anything because it’s the past and if it hadn’t been for this, and that, and Europe and Germany…and…fuck, please. Please. I’m…this…fuck.”
Montoya realises that his hand is halfway up Kimi’s leg. The other man is shaking. His eyes are blazing. Kimi has no idea how angry he really is, underneath everything. Montoya suddenly understands that it is Kimi’s way, denial, because it is safer to feel the muted after-effects later on than the intensity of a feeling when it is ripe and bleeding. He has no idea, the idiot, of what’s been underneath the surface; what’s been there, alongside his blood and his lust and his heart. Kimi has a way of ignoring inconvenient emotions. Kimi has a way of putting off what’s good for him. Kimi has a way of looking at him like he’s all he wants in the world and it’s innocence and knowledge all at once and he can’t help it – he has to capture him, has to have him, has to put a mark on him so that nobody else can get at him. He reaches out and kisses himself into Kimi’s lips, all the way through to his bones, to his bullet-heartbeat, to the centre of the volcano that Kimi won’t recognise is there unless it is Montoya pointing it out. Kimi’s hand sneaks its way around his neck and scratches, hard, and Montoya knows just how angry and despairing he is – just how angry and despairing he was when Montoya won, when Alonso won, when things never went as he’d planned them to. Selfish to the core, and vulnerable, and shaking in fierce scratches. Kimi is a conundrum and he’ll never make sense.
“Lie down,” Montoya growls, smacking his wrist lightly. Kimi ignores him, begins to unravel the brash silver coils of his overalls, faintly amused, as Montoya turns him and kisses into his shoulders and his back; nipping the nape of his neck. Once Kimi is done there is a pile of interlacing colours on the floor, and he starts on Montoya; nimble, blunt fingers flickering here and there as Montoya’s hands drag into his hair and their kisses go on; wet-mouthed and fast-breathed. Kimi’s skin is faintly wet from exertion and there are beads of it against his collarbone that disappear fuzzily into Montoya’s chin as he pushes him down onto the narrow surface of the bed. There is a brief moment where he considers everything in a second; foreplay and technique and all the hotspots that turn Kimi on but right now, all he wants is something to feel close, and urgent, and hot – and there’s later, there’s going to be later, for sure. He does not pin Kimi’s hands down as he normally would, nor does he tease him with clockwise, anticlockwise, tongue-strokes to his nipples. He merely chuckles roughly at the way Kimi’s hips are pushing into his stomach without any particular inhibition; cock hardening somewhere around his bellybutton, smiling at friction with closed-eyed sighs. Nudging his legs further apart with a knee, Montoya settles between them and makes short haste of kissing down the bloodline of his neck, nibbling his collarbone, holding slim hips in firm hands. Holding him still. When his mouth reaches Kimi’s navel, the other man has reared up so that his back curves beautifully, a ragged moan lost in his lungs.
“More,” he says with all the simplicity in the world. “More.”
Montoya is, after some thought, not in the mood to argue with that. With one hand, he pulls Kimi closer to him, forcing the breath out of him, tracing a hand around the base of his cock with no real intention as he rummages in the desk drawers for something to prepare him with. It is one of the parts that Kimi seems to like best; he wriggles against it, gets off on it, jerks and writhes to suit himself. He doesn’t care much for being adequately loosened but he likes the feel of Montoya’s fingers, which can curve in ways that his cock cannot, and he usually prolongs the madness long enough for Montoya to get quite exasperated with him. This is what he does this time, despite their mutual bloodlust, chasing the limit as he always does. He knows what will send him overboard. He knows and keeps back, teases himself, fucks himself on Montoya’s fingers, breath throaty and hot against the back of his hand. Montoya watches him until he can’t stand it, needs to be in on it, and jerks his fingertips dangerously against Kimi’s prostate, teaching him a lesson about teasing and vengeance. Kimi does him a disservice by holding back the squeak that threatens to leave him, hooking a foot somewhere into Montoya’s shoulderblade and grunting amicably, “Well, fuck me then.”
There is a second where Montoya relishes it; the words he wasn’t sure he’d hear until the season ended and the ease of testing ebbed in. He relishes the look on Kimi’s face; that abandoned black-eyed sensuality. He relishes everything from wiggling toes to hot breath to soft thighs and then he can’t stand the relishing anymore than he can stand the way Kimi is open to him, and he finds the spot on his neck that always makes him boneless as he eases his way inside him. It is there that the calm descends, taking them away from the breathless exhilaration of heat to a hedonistic appreciation of the senses and Montoya looks into Kimi’s eyes when he’s at the hilt, giving him time to adjust. They are barely two noses apart, his hands flat on the pillow, and neither of them says a word as everything else vanishes – everything becomes silent and still and right. He cannot think what to say, besides, and it doesn’t matter because he probably shouldn’t, anyway. Kimi looks at him, curls a hand away from the barred headboard to the nape of his neck; supportive, sympathetic, uniting. Kimi knows what he feels; shares it. Kimi understands. And he wants him. Wants him in the little ‘please’ that leaves his lips, the slight jerk upwards of his hips.
Knowing that it can’t possibly last long, not with three months under their belts, Montoya doesn’t take long to find the rhythm that is unique to them; the one that Kimi likes because he’s selfish and independent and likes to fuck as much as he as fucked and to thrust, to move, to drown. It isn’t long before Kimi’s faster than Montoya is and he’s gasping in sweat and adrenaline, his eyes squeezed tight. Montoya’s breath is ragged in his ear and he’s pushing his hips downwards, disappearing somewhere between the world and Kimi, dissolving in sensations that have too long been denied him. Neither of them speak; their communication is grunts and small cries and the fumbling of hands around each other. As one of Montoya’s hands moves to Kimi’s hair, nails almost entrenched in his scalp, Kimi seems to sense something in the air of this; a different sound wave or scent and his breath becomes staccato. Montoya recognises this very clearly as inevitability; notes that Kimi is not trying as much to push his hips back but to meet them, to keep Montoya inside him, to edge him closer to where all the pleasure is, throbbing and hot and wet. Kimi’s fist is curling around his cock; knuckles brushing Montoya’s ribs. Montoya leans closer to him and takes the initiative; the one that he knows will never come again. Kimi always touches himself; it is his independence, his way. And Montoya has seen enough of Kimi’s way to dislike it, and so his fingers are brash and demonstrative when they wrap around Kimi’s own and Kimi makes a noise like thunder in his throat. Montoya can’t tell whether he is angry or pleased but Kimi makes no move to stop him and instead only moves harder, breath the sound of hard rain.
It is only through stubbornness in the end that Montoya manages to hold himself back until Kimi makes that strangled noise of pig-headedness and throws his hips up to meet Montoya’s, shuddering still on a bow-bent angle. He allows himself the tingle of hearing Kimi choke out a half-name, a half-word that he can’t get to the end of, before everything in his own body hums and constricts and winds up so tight that his breath doesn’t come until everything ebbs away in a sudden blaze and he cries out in almost-surprise. They’re like that for a minute or so; entwined and soaking wet and muscle-tightened euphoric, until the trembling aftermath sets in and Kimi shifts just a little so that Montoya can pull out and collapse halfway beside him. The air is full of breath and exhaustion and moving ribcages until Kimi turns his face to look at the Colombian; blonde hair sweat-matted to his head. Montoya is somewhere in closed-eyed bliss and does not see it; does not recognise the look in Kimi’s eyes that speaks of months of emotion, months of pain and disappointment and false political correctness. He doesn’t see the rubble in Kimi’s race; the poison that is dripping out and away, far away, from his body. He doesn’t see the freedom that rises from sex-drenched skin. He doesn’t see what he’s done, at all. And he doesn’t see what Kimi can’t say – that he needed him, despite the arguing and the distractions and the fact that Montoya is the only teammate Kimi’s had who he’s considered a rival. He doesn’t see any of it. And so Kimi reaches timidly for Montoya’s hand.