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A body becomes a shrine throughout the years. Holds on to stories that hardly matter in the first place in the way only something stubborn can. Balaclava lines fade soon enough, sliver of lighter skin that rests between his thumb and index does not.
Fernando places a kiss there, right where the sharp end of the screwdriver had once pierced flesh. Other man must think of it as meaningless, but it’s soothing in the same way mother’s kiss had been when the wound had been freshly bandaged.
Even back then, he had been prone to bleeding at the slightest touch.
Fingers entwined after another race. Single digit points and a DNF are harder and harder to stomach when the both of them know there is the potential in the car for a podium. Esteban doesn’t know who wants it more, who is more eager to drink champagne from the hollowness of the other’s collarbones. They leap towards it with eagerness, yet scrape their knees against the pavement when they get too close, like children chasing dreams, all the same.
Press calls them similar. They cut out parts of their story, only to make a collage of all the things they assume can be put down next to one another. Self-made , only stings when he realizes he’s nowhere near close to being deserving of being compared to the great Fernando Alonso. Yet, Fernando raises him towards the sky after his first and only win all the same, while he speaks of growth and forgiveness. There is still so much to be found, do not blame the years for being too little, and do not blame time for moving too slow .
Fernando rests his head on his chest while Esteban’s fingers run through his hair. There is hardly any grey to be found, no matter what the other man might have implied during their latest official F1 interview.
Being with the other like this resembles, what he imagines, stepping out of a car driving at full speed down the main straight. It leaves him breathless, a punch to the chest when he goes from ridiculous high speeds to basically zero within the blink of an eye. A mere hour ago, they were still bickering over data back in the paddock, and now, he can feel Fernando’s stubble scratching his naked chest.
He kisses the top of Fernando’s head. Esteban barely knows how to offer affection and prayer in any other way.
“Does it still hurt?”
Fernando never even said it hurt in the first place. A grumbled ‘I’m fine’ across the static of the radio is hardly a confession of pain, but it isn’t a lack of it either. A clipped wall and a shattered front wing is all it takes to put a good-looking car out of the race. It is also enough to make his heart sink to his stomach and adrenaline to make a hostage out of his lungs.
“It never did.” liar, liar . “I barely crashed. Could have kept going if they didn’t box me.” Fernando is mumbling now, pressing words to Esteban’s bare skin. He stores them there, between his ribs and the freckles scattered around the skin. Esteban promises never to tell another soul of the things he has carved into his bones. “Fernando, you ripped open half of your bodywork, you were lucky the car didn’t break in half.”
His fingers are still moving through thick brown hair. Nails gently pressed against other man’s scalp. Drawing patterns he himself cannot quite follow. They always resemble love, in one language or another, they must resemble love.
“Minor scrape.”
Free hand moves to take hold of lover’s wrist, pulls it up to kiss the slight bruise he knows to be there a few inches below the joint. He kisses it carefully. He knows that a press of lips won’t make it fade faster, knows that he cannot take away the dull ache of it. Knows that he has to try all the same.
“No bruised ribs, no fractured bones - ” Esteban is rattling off the things he knows to be true, the team doctors had told him when he insisted on knowing. They had probably sought permission from Fernando, before opening up about medical records. Either Fernando had given it, or they had been able to draw their own conclusions from his trembling hand on the door frame. He so hoped that it was the first option. “ - but still a risk of concussion.”
He kisses lover’s forehead, careful not to move the other too much. Getting him to stay in bed for longer than absolutely necessary was a feat all by itself. At least, he was a champion of something within the sport.
Fernando moves, rolls away from him until he’s on his back, staring up at the ceiling above. Esteban wonders if he too tries to find patterns in the paint when he cannot sleep at night. He misses the hotel back in Montreal, which had a rabbit hidden next to the shape of the ceiling light.
“Impressive, corazón . You remembered my doctor’s notes.”
Heart. A heart wants, a heart craves. His heart wants to care for. There are a million things nomad hands wish to do, but there is only one thing a settled heart is ready to comply with. Nothing is as simple as the art of loving when both one's heart and head are in agreement. “My teacher always said I was smart.” and my mother always said I was filled with love .
Fingers remain wrapped around Fernando’s wrist. Hold him there, even when the both of them know all too well that the other can pull away from his grasp with ease. There is nothing permanent holding them down, only the desire to stay. Only the wish to see this through. Broken down car that scar-covered hands are trying to bring back to life. Neither one of them has ever been good at wearing gloves when they’re reaching out for sharp metal and oil.
“Come here.” Fernando asks, never demands, and Esteban can do very little but obey. Leaning down to press a kiss to lover’s lips. It no longer tastes of salt, no longer holds tears. He cannot be sure who cried the most. Either a fearful heart or one that held on to bitterness for a moment too long. They don’t speak about it, there’s no need to.
That’s part of caring for, too. Knowing when enough has been said.
“Rest. That’s what the doctor ordered.” lover’s lips are kissing a wildfire up the side of his neck, lingering at the point where Esteban knows Fernando can taste his pulse. Heart , a term of endearment kept, quite literally, at the tip of his tongue. “Este - ” it is a prayer in its own right. “ - stop worrying, it does not suit you. You are prettier when you smile.”
Fernando puts something in his heart, something solid in his mouth. Something for him to bite into, something for him to remember the other by when they’re apart. It never leaves, the taste of him pressed against the inside of his cheek. Spine holds wildflowers pushing against it, they only bloom underneath Fernando’s touch.
“I will smile again when you are better.” liar, lair . He’s already smiling against Fernando’s forehead, placing a kiss against the small scar he knows to be there.
He knows the other man like he knows himself. Even better, perhaps. A well-loved book, marked at his favourite passage, where he opens him over and over again. “When you are rested.” another kiss against the scar, flat palm of his hand against Fernando’s chest, pushing him back down into the sheets. “When you have slept.”
If it is cheating to toss a leg across the other’s waist in order to pin him down, he would break the rules over and over again. Struggling man underneath him finally admits defeat with a loud sigh, shuffles once more to get comfortable against the pillow. Esteban instantly mourns the loss of a mouth against his throat. Perhaps love is having teeth there, yet knowing the one who shares your bed will not bite you unless you ask .
“So, you will stop worrying about me in the morning?” Fernando is whispering against his collarbone, when the lights have been turned off and darkness settles around them both. His fingers are still moving through his hair, his other hand is drawing circles on the other’s back. They are entwined both with one another and the sheets. Esteban still bleeds at the slightest touch.
“I will smother you if you don’t go to sleep right now.” he means it, Fernando knows this .
Esteban can feel the rumble of laughter against his chest, can feel the echo of it in the room. It settles like the dust and the darkness. He loves it. He loves Fernando. Sometimes, life is as simple as that.