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The hands had always been a thing. Even Before it was ever something more serious between them, before Bez’s closet had a side full of Sava’s clothes, before Jorge came back from his injury. Back when Rubik had still greeted Sava with hesitance instead of bounding up to him begging for attention. And before it was more than just fucking, maybe even before they had started fucking — Bez had always noticed Sava’s hands.
The thing is, compared to Bez’s, they’re massive. At the beginning He had noticed it when Sava would go in for side hugs or a handshake. A small consideration that they were larger than his own. It got worse, later, when Sava would grab him during media challenges, or gripping his face with both huge hands after Bez managed to make a podium.
Bez can remember mentioning it their first time, after Silverstone, Sava celebrating Bez’s win like it was his own. He remembers cornering Sava by his motorhome. He was tipsy from all the alcohol, while Sava seemed completely sober, just drunk enough to slide his arms around Sava’s waist like it wasn’t some massive admission. Sava had given no obvious reaction, a small smile maybe, before wrapping his own arms around Bez’s neck and playing with the tips of his hair.
He does remember moving his lips by Sava’s ear, slurring and tactless and also so so relieved Sava hadn’t immediately pushed him away, and asking Sava if anything else was as big as his hands are
.
The kiss Sava had pulled him into, grabbing his face the way he had done earlier that day, had been messy. Bez almost braining himself on Sava’s nose by moving his head too fast, way too much spit on both their parts. Messy but amazing, like popping a bottle of champagne on a hard-won podium, being doused in the feeling.
Bez had told Sava how it had felt too, but way after, Sava looking down at him with an amused expression, winding his hands through Bez’s hair in a similar way to that day, the other resting on Bez’s chest as they laid together in their bed. Sava had laughed, a loud shocked sound, and said that Bez’s rose coloured glasses must have been prescription to have been that good. But then he had leaned in to kiss him deep, smiling into it, and he never actually disagreed either.
The point is, Bez liked Sava’s hands. They were a thing that had brought them together, a thing Bez noticed before he even realised he was noticing in the first place.
It’s just that it got weirder, later on.
Bez liked to have something to do with his mouth, it was why he loved kissing so much. He could spend what felt like hours with Sava just making out, sat on Sava’s lap on the sofa while a movie was forgotten in the background. And Sava had never really cared or protested, happy to find himself with Bez on top him, running a hand down Bez’s back to grab his ass before trailing his hands back up slowly to pull softly at his hair. That was another time Bez could feel the difference between Sava’s hands and his own, but he’d never really brought that one to Sava’s attention. Sava had laughed slightly and called it an oral fixation, the way Bez had to have something to occupy his mouth — either gnawing at the end of a pen or chewing gum or more favourably, in the privacy of their own space, biting Sava lightly whenever he could, wherever he could. That had made Bez frown and tell him it was stupid to label stupid things, before leaning back in to kiss Sava again and again.
The combination of Bez’s obvious, but not acknowledged, oral fixation and Sava’s hands should have been expected. And maybe it was; at least to Sava.
It had, also, started small. Lounging on their bed on a weekend with no testing and no races, Bez sat in nothing except some warn out shorts, Sava beside him in the same but with an added faded t-shirt. Sava had been there first, taking advantage of the best AC in the apartment. Before Bez walked in, pouting and complaining about the weather, stretching himself over sava. Eventually they had ended up with Bez’s back pressed to Sava’s front, Sava’s arm slung over the other’s shoulders. The only sounds in the room were from the AC unit and Bez’s phone, quietly playing stupid videos that Bez would occasionally deem funny enough to wake up Sava from his doze and push his phone in front of Sava’s face with a small giggle. Sliding down the pillows had left Sava’s arm folded at an awkward angle, pressing his hand closer to Bez’s shoulder. Sava still doesn’t even think that Bez noticed himself leaning slightly to where he could reach Sava’s hand, nosing at the other mans fingers and occasionally biting down, putting them in his mouth just enough to feel them.
Sava hadn’t told Bez then that he'd been doing it. Mainly for fear that Bez would get embarrassed, would suddenly perk up with energy and goad Sava into fucking him, the expectation being that a good orgasm would make Sava forget whatever thing Bez had been doing before that, whatever he had considered too embarrassing. That and the fact the sensation had Sava falling asleep far quicker than usual. Lulled by the feeling of Bez on his chest, the fading light from the windows and the feeling of Bez’s lips by his hand.
And it had manifested from there, after several more times Sava knew Bez had realised, could tell in the way Bez would freeze and move his face away slightly in attempt to ensure Sava wouldn’t notice. Sava had sat Bez down, taking his face in his hands, and told him they had to talk about it. Bez had been awkward, an uncomfortable look warping itself over his face, but they had sorted it. Sava tried to ensure Bez that it was okay, told him that if he hadn’t liked it he would’ve asked Bez to stop months ago. Bez had leant into his hands, after they finished talking, almost like a dog begging for attention, and had taken Sava’s thumb into his mouth.
It became something softer, too. During the times where they couldn’t be Bez and Sava, larger emotions turning them into Marco and Lorenzo instead. On the days where Marco was quiet, coming home from a race weekend. The reasons could be endless, a bad test, butting heads with Jorge one too many times for a small apology to sort out, the bike not working the way he wanted it to, messing up at a practice or a sprint or a race so bad that it felt like only Lorenzo and his stupid hands could piece his stability back together. He’d come home with too much energy, restless and fidgety, and look at Lorenzo with a downturned mouth and pleading eyes until Lorenzo understood. It had been strange to realise that after lashing out, after being angry, the next thing Marco would do was go silent. It had taken Lorenzo even longer to figure out a way to offer comfort, a place to be silent in, when he had gotten so used to Marco filling up every space in his life.
Lorenzo would lay down on their sofa or their bed, switching on the TV before he settled, and would motion Marco over until Marco snapped out of whatever mistake he’d been focusing on and laid himself over Lorenzo. They’d stay there, TV little more than faded noise, until Marco worked up the courage to reach for Lorenzo’s hand, gingerly moving his fingers to his mouth. On some days, when Marco needed the encouragement, Lorenzo would hold his hand up to where Marco’s face was a steady weight on his chest, and keep it there until Marco registered his fingers enough to move. They’d stay like that, Marco holding Lorenzo’s hand to his mouth and sucking slightly at the other’s fingers, while Lorenzo moved his unoccupied hand up and down Marco’s back. Marco would be facing the TV but with his eyes closed, not focusing on anything but Lorenzo surrounding him, and Lorenzo would press light kisses to Marco’s hair once in a while, before turning back to the dim light of the screen. More often than not they’d fall asleep, Lorenzo’s hand falling from Marco’s grip and mouth in favour of holding Lorenzo a little closer, shifting slightly to get a little more comfortable.
Sava would wake up in the morning with a crick in his neck. He'd hear the sound of Bez talking to the dogs in another room, back to being Bez and Sava again. Eyes barely open he’d go into the kitchen, shuffling into Bez’s space to place a sloppy kiss on Bez’s lips before Bez would shove his face away and tell him to go brush his teeth. He’d pat the dogs softly on the head before stumbling off and doing as he’s told, before returning for the coffee he’d forgot the first time round.
They’d talk, eventually, about whatever had Bez feeling that way. But first they’d have coffee.