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Whenever Adrian needs to relax, he plays the piano. He finds comfort in the steady march of notes across the sheet music, takes solace in the idea that a seemingly haphazard arrangement contained within five lines can become so ordered. He likes the thought that the boundaries of those five lines can be breached, extended up and down, the treble clef replaced by the bass. Chaos within order within chaos.
If one can find a rhythm, one can find a way through life. Adrian has known this from his earliest childhood. He listened to his father play the violin and discerned within the flurry of notes, the cascade of music, that there was a beat behind even the strangest piece. Later he learned to keep simple time—2/4, 3/4, 4/4—and though it's easy for him to play more complex rhythms, he still returns to those steady beats, to the safety of the metronome click.
Seated at the Steinway, he rests his fingertips upon the keys. The Yas Hotel staff didn't hesitate when he asked if he could play the piano undisturbed for an hour or so. The hotel staff are polite, obliging, treat him like royalty even though he's sure none of them know who he is. He's just one of the many, a note in a symphony, but they smile and invite him to play the piano for as long as he wants, and they even hang a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the ballroom door.
It's likely he's the first person to play this piano since it was shipped here. Of course, the tuner would have tested it, corrected the discordant tones caused by transit, but Adrian imagines he's the first to play it for real. He looks at his hands upon the gleam of the keys and he wonders what music best suits his mood.
He depresses the keys slowly, very gently so no notes emerge. He feels the give of the keys, judging how he will go into the piece—an attack, or a seduction?
Adrian frowns. Attack or seduction. It reminds him of Jarno. He smiles briefly, remembering the sheer fury that spilled out of Jarno after their collision in Brazil. Adrian has seen rage like that before, but it was written within the constraints of music. He's experienced melodic anger, touched it, mastered it, felt it flow beneath his hands—just as he did with Jarno.
A note sounds, a low thunk that interrupts his memories. His thoughts are leading him astray, and Adrian exhales his annoyance. He rolls his shoulders back, unlocking muscles that have become inexplicably tense, and he hums middle C. He's still not sure what he'll play yet, and closes his eyes to let his fingers decide. He crosses his hands, stroking keys at random, modulating his hum and then starting to lean into his playing.
Certain notes begin to stand out from the mass of sound, a rhythm starting to establish itself. He silences his voice and lets the music speak. Before he'd sat down, he'd thought something classical would be ideal, perhaps Brahms, maybe Stravinsky, but what emerges instead is the complex time signature of jazzy blues. Adrian feels the music, his body recognising it long before his mind gives it a title: Blue Rondo à la Turk.
He sinks into the tune, following the rhythm, his body moving to the beat in subtle sways and drifts. His eyes half closed, he plays from feeling, from memory muscle rather than conscious thought. It's like this sometimes when he's on the race track, a matter of instinct and response rather than premeditated decisions.
The door bangs open. Startled from his imaginings, Adrian jerks his hands from the keys for a split-second and turns toward the interruption. When he sees the familiar figure stalking towards him, he resumes playing. He makes sure to pick up the tune before the last notes have faded, his fingers stabbing at the keys, blurring the music into something with an even faster tempo.
Jarno strides across the polish of the wooden floor, his shoes clicking with each step. Adrian frowns, tilting his head and modulating his rhythm to match Jarno's rapid pace. It's a pastiche, pure and simple, and he stops only when Jarno slams a hand down upon the keyboard. The unhappy jangle of keys makes Adrian wince, and he sits back, giving Jarno a carefully judged questioning look.
Before he can speak, Jarno thrusts a sheaf of prints and papers at him. "Here. Look at this."
Adrian lifts his eyebrows, keeping his expression mild. "Perhaps you missed the sign on the door."
Jarno stares, his brows drawing together. "What sign?"
"The one saying 'Do Not Disturb'."
"Oh. That." At least Jarno has the grace to look slightly ashamed, but then he ruins it by shrugging. "So what? It's not like you were busy."
Adrian lifts his chin, his gaze narrowing. He rests his fingers on the keys. "I was playing."
The sheaf of papers is shoved into his face. "You should have stayed as a concert pianist rather than try your luck as a driver. I am sure your skill at playing far exceeds your ability on the track."
It's on the tip of his tongue to retaliate, to snap out a feeble witticism about Jarno's skill at growing grapes, but Adrian inhales and lets his anger dissolve. It does him no good to get cross, and besides, the calmer he is, the more it seems to drive Jarno insane—and Adrian decides he likes the idea of crazy Jarno.
With this in mind, he pushes back the piano stool and rises to his feet. He does it with slow deliberation, unfolding himself to his full height, and is amused and pleased when Jarno makes an involuntary flinch backwards. Adrian takes advantage of it, holding out his hand and invading Jarno's space. "Let me see those pictures."
Jarno stops slouching and stands up straight, drawing back his shoulders as if the action could make him taller.
Adrian almost grins, but keeps his features schooled into polite blankness. He flicks through the pages, finding it difficult to keep his straight face when instead of examining a screencap of the collision from a YouTube clip, he reads the comment beneath: Gay Trulli mesmerised by seeing Sutil's arse.
Turning the page around, he asks, "Is this true?"
Jarno frowns. "Of course it's true. You can clearly see the way you were on the kerbs there. It shows you are trying to hit me."
"Not the picture." Adrian taps the YouTube comment. "This."
There's a pause as Jarno blinks, purses his lips, and leans forward to read the single line of text. A blush starts, spreading until he's forced to look away, his gaze dropping. He swallows hard.
"Well?" Adrian isn't sure why he's doing this. Payback, perhaps, for the last race. Revenge for the moment when Jarno had burst into his room and punched him, kissed him, demanded a handjob, and finally bit him before getting up and leaving. The bruises on Adrian's neck have faded, but he hasn't forgotten the sensation of Jarno's teeth at his throat. Sharp and hard enough to break the skin, the trickle of warm blood, the sight of it smeared over Jarno's lips—he remembers it all, remembers how it felt to taste his own blood from Jarno's mouth.
The memory shouldn't be arousing. It should be disgusting and painful, even humiliating. But it's not. Adrian remembers the ache of his erection, a promise unfulfilled, and he wants it all over again.
"I don't like you." Jarno glares at him in defiance. "And your arse is not so nice, either. Why would I want to look at it?"
Adrian flicks a glance over his shoulder, studying his arse with exaggerated care. "Why isn't it nice? It's not as round as Nico's but I think I have a good arse."
Jarno makes an exclamation of annoyed disgust and snatches the photographs from him. "You're impossible. I came here to talk to you seriously, and all you can do is make jokes about your arse."
"I didn't start this," Adrian reminds him, keeping his tone soft and reasonable.
"You did. You hit me."
"And you punched me last time, or did you forget?"
"I..." Jarno jerks his gaze away. The pictures crumple in his hands. "That was also your fault. You made me angry."
Taking a step closer, Adrian angles into Jarno until he feels the heat of his body. He dips one shoulder, slouching to minimise their difference in height. "Am I making you angry now?"
Jarno tilts back his head, meeting the challenge. A muscle tics in his jaw. "Yes."
Before he can think better of it, Adrian kisses him, bringing his hands up to cradle Jarno's head between his palms. There's a tenderness implicit in the gesture he doesn't intend, so he slides one hand to Jarno's nape and grips a handful of blond-streaked curls.
There's a moment of frozen surprise, then Jarno bites him. It's sharp, painful, but then Jarno squashes against Adrian and kisses him with unbridled fury.
Blood taints his mouth, the metallic tang slow and easy over his tongue. Adrian hums into the kiss, enjoying the anger of it. Absorb it, muffle it, turn it to his advantage... he knows how to use rage creatively. He ruffles through Jarno's hair, pulling him closer. Jarno hisses against his lips, biting again as they press together. The photographs crush and crumple, the corners poking through Adrian's shirt to prick at his chest like needles.
The kiss turns hungry, fury replaced by lust. Adrian drops his hands to cup Jarno's arse, digging his fingertips into tight, tensed muscle. Adrian knows how to use his fingers, how to feel every nuance of touch; the pads of his fingers tell him things his other senses can't know. Through them, he reads the levels of Jarno's desire and knows he can go further with this. Much further.
Even as the thought crosses Adrian's mind, Jarno pulls back and stares at him, his eyes flashing and his colour high. "I hate you."
"I know." Adrian hooks one finger into Jarno's belt and brings him forward a step before pressing his palm over the bulge in Jarno's jeans. "But you still want me."
"It's not you." Jarno flushes, anger and arousal sparking in his expression. "Or if it is you, it's only because you need—I want—"
Adrian raises his eyebrows. "You want to teach me a lesson, yes? Just like you did last time."
"Last time—" Jarno struggles to find the words, "last time was taking what I deserved. What I paid for."
"Oh?" Adrian's enjoying this. He holds Jarno against him, feeling the tension of rage packed into that small, slender body. He's often bemoaned his height, often felt clumsy around the other drivers on the grid, but today he revels in it. Compared to Jarno, he's huge, a giant, and it makes him feel powerful. "Ten thousand dollars, and all you got from it was one crappy handjob. Don't you feel cheated?"
Jarno tries to wriggle out of his grasp, holding his precious photographs to his chest like some old-fashioned girl clutching a handkerchief to her bosom. "I feel cheated that the stewards fined me, not you. They are all blind, as blind as you are!"
"You need to let that go. All of it." Adrian plucks the photographs one by one and tosses them to the floor. The glossy printed pages skitter across the polished wooden parquet. "Tell me one thing. Why did you come here today?"
"You..." A flicker of confusion shows in Jarno's gaze, and then he stoops to retrieve the pictures, fussily arranging them in chronological order.
Before he can pick up the last photograph, Adrian puts his foot in the centre of it. Jarno freezes in the act of reaching out for it. Slowly he raises his head, his cheeks flushed with anger. "Get your foot off it."
The sense of control makes Adrian almost giddy. "Say 'please'."
Jarno stares at him for a long moment, then he swallows. "Please."
Adrian is almost tempted to push it further, to make Jarno beg some more, but he pulls himself back from the madness and lifts his foot.
Immediately, Jarno grabs the photograph. His cheeks burn and he turns his head to hide his expression. He keeps his face averted as he stands, the pictures held at arm's length as if they've been tainted. The topmost photograph carries the faint imprint of Adrian's shoe.
Jarno brushes at it as if trying to clean it off. He doesn't meet Adrian's gaze. "If you won't accept what you did was wrong, I will go to the FIA again. I will make them discuss it in the drivers' briefing."
Adrian cocks his head. "Why is this so important to you?"
"Because I am right." Jarno glances at him, but again won't hold his gaze. His mouth tightens, his lower lip plumping almost into a pout. With tension visible in his jaw, audible in the way he crushes out the words, he says again, "I was right, and you are wrong. I can prove it."
"You can't." Adrian speaks without thinking, fascinated by the emotions playing across Jarno's face. "You can't prove anything except we had a crash. You turned in on me. It was a mistake. End of story."
"It's not the end!"
Amused, Adrian chuckles. "I don't know if you're determined or stubborn or just crazy."
Jarno's lips curl in disgust. He seizes Adrian's shirt, no doubt to emphasise whatever point he intends on making, but he doesn't get as far as speech. Something inside Adrian snaps, and before Jarno can do anything, he's lifted off his feet.
Swinging him up from the floor, Adrian dumps Jarno onto the piano keyboard to the accompaniment of a crash of notes. The photographs scatter again as Jarno yelps and clings to Adrian's shoulders before shoving away. The action pushes him further back onto the keyboard, causing a fresh round of plink-plonk-thump.
Adrian can't help it. He grins. "I've always wanted to do this."
Jarno swears in Italian and then again in English as he slides over the keys, creating the worst discord Adrian has ever heard. It hurts his ears, but he doesn't care. It's chaos, but he knows he can force order from it. He just needs to find the right way to coax out a tune.
He crowds Jarno, leaning down to kiss him. Jarno scrabbles to stay seated on the keyboard, his hands striking notes indiscriminately. "F, G sharp, B flat, major, minor, major," Adrian murmurs, naming each distinguishable sound from the cacophony as he forces Jarno back against the shiny surface of the piano. The Steinway is worth fifty thousand pounds and it isn't his to abuse, but all he can think about is how fucking hot Jarno would look spread naked over the piano lid.
Adrian undoes Jarno's jeans one-handed. Jarno curses and shifts closer, each movement emphasised by the notes clunked and banged from the piano. They kiss again, saliva licked and smeared across their mouths, the copper warmth of Adrian's bloody lip a painful taunt.
Adrian shoves his hand inside the jeans, gasping a little into Jarno's mouth when he grips a handful of hot, hard cock through the thin cotton of his briefs. He remembers Brazil, when he'd acted mostly on instinct and without true knowledge. This time he wants to remember everything.
He measures Jarno's length and width through the cloth, squeezing then releasing as he works his way up in slow increments. Jarno moans then catches himself, silencing the needy sound and instead turning it into a curse. Encountering the damp patch over the head of Jarno's cock, Adrian rubs over it with his palm, slides his hand back and forth in a fast rhythm.
"Bastard," Jarno pants, his hips canting. He slides on the keys and forces himself closer to Adrian. "You bastard. Dangerous bastard. Crazy bastard." His accent slips and sings as he wraps his legs around Adrian's waist. Desperation in every movement, he tugs at Adrian's belt, fighting the buckle and the loops to get it undone.
"So you want me?" Adrian knows he shouldn't tease, but he can't help it.
"Shut up." Jarno closes his hand over Adrian's mouth, staring into his eyes, then he replaces his hand with his mouth and kisses him hard and fast.
Leaning into the embrace, Adrian hooks his hands beneath Jarno's thighs, forcing his legs wider. Bringing himself in close, Adrian grinds into the heat cradled between Jarno's thighs, rubbing his cock against Jarno's erection.
Reality bites into Adrian's fantasy, stopping him from going any further. He doesn't have a condom. Of course he doesn't. He came here to play the piano, not to have wild, angry sex with Jarno Trulli. Adrian is nonplussed for a heartbeat, a single metronome click, then he has an idea.
"Off," he orders, yanking Jarno from the keyboard. Jarno almost staggers as his feet hit the floor and he sways into Adrian's arms, jerking back as soon as he realises what he's doing. He gropes for his jeans, trying to draw them up, but Adrian turns him around and pushes him against the Steinway.
He means to close the lid, but Jarno's hands are already flat on the keys, forcing out another discordant sound. What the hell—Adrian has always liked sex to have a musical accompaniment. He snags the piano stool and drags it close, then orders Jarno up. "Kneel on the stool. Do it now."
"You're so fucking bossy." Jarno does it anyway, his arms trembling and the keys plinking in response.
Working quickly to disguise the tremor in his hands, Adrian pulls Jarno's jeans and underwear down to his knees, trapping him where he kneels. For a moment Adrian admires his prize, stroking the muscled line of Jarno's flank, tracing the up-swell of his arse. He can't take full advantage of what's offered, so he'll have to make do with Jarno's thighs instead.
Adrian unfastens his trousers, freeing his cock. He draws his hand up his shaft and arranges himself behind Jarno, rubbing his wet cockhead over the back of Jarno's thighs. Jarno makes an indistinguishable noise and nudges against him, the offer unmistakable. Sliding one arm around his waist to anchor him in place, Adrian grasps the base of Jarno's prick then begins to masturbate him. His fingers grow sticky wet, Jarno's pre-cum drooling across Adrian's skin. Jarno whimpers and drops his head down between his shoulders, his breath shuddering out of him.
Adrian spits into his free hand and smears his saliva over the inside of Jarno's thighs, just below his balls. He rubs through the thick gathering of pubic hair and spits again, wanting Jarno to be good and wet for him. He continues to wank Jarno as he jabs between his thighs, his cock slip-sliding through sweat and saliva and the rough catch of Jarno's pubes. It's not as tight as pussy or arse, but Adrian has no complaints.
When Jarno shifts on the piano stool, his muscles flexing, Adrian gasps. "Squeeze your legs together. Ah, God. Yes, like that."
Jarno chuckles, apparently amused by his sudden power. "I've never done it like this before. The poor man's version of fucking, yes?"
"You've got to be kidding." Adrian doesn't want to talk any more. He squeezes Jarno's cock and thrusts between his thighs, his own shaft caressed by the heat of Jarno's balls. They fuck, the inelegant back and forward of domination punctuated by the striking of keys and the blur of chords.
Though this isn't music, Adrian discerns order within the chaos. He modulates his own strokes to fit the rhythm that best suits Jarno and sinks into the safety of the beat. He loses his focus, the discord of the notes sprinkling through his consciousness. Adrian tries to conjure tunes from them, escaping into Jarno's heat and tension.
He hears the shift in Jarno's breathing, feels the tightening of his muscles. Adrian tightens his grip, focusing his strokes beneath Jarno's cockhead. Wetness covers his fingers, Jarno's hard flesh slipping within his grasp. Adrian thrusts in time with his strokes, counting down—2/4, 3/4, 4/4, 5/4—and his own orgasm almost catches him unawares.
They come over the piano keys in a mad, frantic rush, their voices raised in a single unified cry of pleasure. Opalescent spunk pools on the keyboard and drips down onto the floor.
Adrian pulls free and staggers back, his head spinning. He tucks his cock away and zips his trousers, keeping his head down. He darts cautious little glances at Jarno, watching in silence as he climbs off the piano stool and put his clothes in order. Only then does Jarno bend down to retrieve the fallen photographs from the floor. Several of them have semen spattered across their glossy surfaces.
Jarno stacks the pictures, raising his eyebrows at the stickiness gumming them together. His lips twitch but he doesn't smile. He looks up, meeting Adrian's gaze. "Next time," Jarno says, "I want to see you lose control."
Adrian stares at him. "Next time?"
"Of course. This is not over. Not until I say it is."
With this parting shot, Jarno turns and walks out of the room, his feet clicking across the floor in a decisive, triumphant tattoo.
Adrian sinks down onto the piano stool and watches him go. He jumps a little when the door bangs shut, and then he's alone.
He turns to the piano, sliding around in his seat. He draws patterns through the slime of their seed with the toes of his shoes, then runs his fingers through the puddle of semen coating the keyboard. Slowly, as if trying to recall a long-forgotten melody, he picks out a few chords. His fingers slip on the wet keys, but it doesn't matter.
Soon the rhythm establishes itself. Adrian sinks into it, lets his mind slip its leash. Chaos within order within chaos. The beat takes him, and he surrenders to it.