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He first spots him down the pitlane. Just the back of his head as he exits the garage to check out the conditions when the start delay is announced, hidden under his obnoxiously large umbrella until the final moment. The rain beats down around them. Jake imagines him stepping back into the garage with rain soaked hair.
It’s a disastrous day. Having showered and licked his wounds Jake just wants to be go back to the hotel, go to sleep and forget the whole thing. Slipping out of the media pen he catches a glimpse of the other man just beginning his interviews. Crisp black polo meeting sweat damp curls on his nape, of course Pascal hadn't had time to shower, unlike Jake he’d finished the race. Jake catches himself thinking about running his tongue along the flushed skin.
Fate has a funny sense of humour. They sometimes go whole weekends hardly seeing eachother, other times the universe seems to conspire to bring them together, nature's special form of torture. He jams the 'door close' button, cursing under his breath as a perfectly manicured hand prevents his solitude by an inch, forcing the doors back open. He gives polite acknowledgments to the couple of Porsche team members that greet him, the lift occupancy swelling seven fold. Bogged down by its new weight, they glide lethargically upwards in silence. In the huddle of team personnel Pascal studies the floor, then the wall. Jake wonders if his crew can feel the tension popping around them.
Three stops later only Pascal remains, granting Jake his side profile for the first time today. Now it's Jake's turn to take in the wall. Pascal turns away again, something close to disappointment stirs in his chest.
“Shit race huh?” Like any good Englishman he tries to make polite conversation.
“Bite me.” Few people would ever believe the German was capable of such vitriol unprovoked. It's one of the many things that drives Jake crazy, how the other man managed to keep such a squeaky clean image, despite the bastard underneath.
“What fighting with Cassidy for no points not doing it for you champ?” He digs the knife in, frustrated to still be studying the back of the other man's head.
“Ah yes, because your race was so much better. Tell me, how many points do you get for a black flag?”
The doors open. Pascal doesn't move. Jake huffs going to squeeze around him. Stepping one foot out of that metal box before hearing.
“Where are you going?” He grinds his teeth. Pascal always asks questions with an air of exasperation, like the person he's talking to is incredibly stupid.
“To my room.” Sneering, he keeps his eyes forward. The silence stretches. Jake waits a beat, straddling two worlds, he recognises the choice in front of him. Forward or backwards. He can’t wait here forever, sooner or later his decision will have to be made with both feet. He refuses to turn around, if Pascal wants something, he'll have to use his words. True to form, where Jake’s concerned the other man can’t even bother to try. Too tired to make a jab and turn this into an argument, he steps forward.
From the gap between closing doors comes a sirens call.
“Room 730.”
The audacity of the man has him seething. Lying on top of his covers, staring at the Tokyo hotel ceiling paint, Jake bemoans the complete waste of a day.
An hour later he's knocking on an identical door two floors up. 730 lit up on a small panel next to the handle. Pascal’s hair is damp from the shower, the silver chain he always wears sits bright against tanned skin. Baggy grey trackies hug his hips like something the boys from Bosworth would wear back home.
It takes Jake back to a different time, just them and a lake in Switzerland. A time when there was a them, however briefly. Drying off after a dip in the crystal clear water, Jake had pulled the smaller man into a kiss.
“You should take your shirt off more often.” He smiled, enjoying how the blush spreads all the way down his chest.
“I would look silly.” But he kept it off for the rest of the hike.
Now Jake doesn't kiss him. Moving into the room feeling both prey and hunter. They both know why he's here, they both felt the irresistible pull of fate from the moment the doors closed on that lift. Perhaps before that. This whole weekend has an acrid touch of inevitably stamped all over it. Still, Pascal is going to make him say it and Jake's too tired to argue.
“There's no points for being disqualified.”
The corner of Pascal's mouth turns up. Jake's traitorous heart leaps. He walks towards the other man. Pascal let’s himself be boxed in against the door, studying Jake impassively. He longs to cup his cheek, press their lips together softly, feel his facial hair under his palm. Choosing instead to rest his palms on flushed hot hip bones.
“Ah a pointless day then?” The German quirks an eyebrow, mirth and malice dancing through his soft brown eyes. A familiar thread of betrayal that's never far from the surface whenever his rival is near, flairs up. He fantasies about pressing the smaller man down to his knees, using his mouth for something useful, just to shut him up.
“Maybe not…” Jake leans closer, leering over his fellow driver, forcing him to look up if he wants to met Jakes eyes. Hair falling forward, curtaining them in ultimate privacy. His hands tighten their hold. Blood rushes, burning hot, to his extremities, as the other man's chest hitches. Body pressing into Jake's touch, lifting his chin unbowed.
“What will you do to fix it?” Jake hates how much Pascal's enjoying this. How after all this time the German still has him exactly where he wants him and Jake is powerless to stop it.
“I'm going to fuck you, that's how.” He growls, pressing hard enough that he expects Pascal's spine to leave an indent in the door. Inhaling the others cherry fresh scent, that must be the hotel soap. He grinds his hips down, making sure Pascal can feel that Jake's not kidding. The German hums with faux contemplation, completely unbothered by his position. Muscular tanned arms snake around Jake's neck, a facsimile of a lovers embrace. The Andretti man feels trapped by his body heat.
“Ja, that would work.” He grins. That small, almost shy smile of satisfaction. Like this was his plan all along, to qualify just ahead of Jake, to just happen to be where he is in the paddock, to tease Jake with just his presence.
He grinds down, desperate to dominate, to show the other driver who's in charge here. All the frustration and anger from today channels into the conveniently willing body in his hands. Pascal's foot taps his ankle, Jake widen's his stance, letting his leg slide between them. Despite being bigger; despite literally pinning the other man to the door with his body, Jake still finds himself grinding against the other's thigh like a bitch in heat. Catching himself, he readjusts his grip, sweaty palms slipping.
“Up you come champ.” He grunts, lifting the other man smoothly, sliding his hands into Pascal's waistband, fingers dipping past elastic, digging into the soft flesh of his glutes. He squeezes roughly, digging his nails in despite the German deftly wrapping his legs around Jake's waist to secure himself.
The Brit almost stumbles. Hot breath tickles his ear, hands clasp around his neck. Bare feet hook together, heels dig into his lower back. Again, somehow the other man is holding the reigns in Jake's life, spuring him forward with a kick to the stirrups.
He's not gentle dropping the Porsche driver onto the mattress, pulling off his bottoms, then turning to his own. It's fine. The other man doesn't need babying, they're not exactly making love, plus he never cared if his actions hurt Jake.
To prove his point the German barely reacts to his new state of nakedness, leaning over to get something from the bedside table. Jake’s just finished pulling his shirt over this head when a condom and lube are pressed into his hand. He blinks dumbfounded for a moment.
“Pascal, we can't. There's a race tomorrow.”
“Yes and I'll still finish in front of you. Now hurry up.”
He's laid out on the sheets, brown skin on black cotton, all light in the universe pivots to highlight every hard line and soft dip of his body. All awareness of where and when they are abandons him. In that moment, Jake can only focus on the way his damp skin shines, muscle and bone moving fluidly, filling his swimming vision. Jake’s treading water, barely keeping his head above the waves of lust, longing and hurt crashing through him.
Tearing his eyes up he recognises the slightly manic look reflected back at him from their time together. Today had been bad for both of them. Sometimes he forgets it gets to Pascal the same way it gets to all of them. The other man's so in control on the surface. Jake only now considers it's not just the passing pain of a bad result that he’ll be feeling. Pascal's looking to cure that bone deep ache of a championship defence slipping away, a deep jagged wound oozing slowly. Hope draining with every round. He understands that feeling better then most, he just wishes when it happened to him Pascal hadn't been the one holding the knife.
“Fine, have it your way.” He snaps, pushing his hair back. Dropping the condom on the sheets, he delights in the surprised sound the other makes as Jake grabs his slim ankle, pulling him down the bed.
“Too rough, mein weltmeister?”
Pascal huffs, letting his knees fall to the side.
“Just get on with it.”
Jake knows he shouldn't let it hurt him, the way no matter what he does Pascal never seems to care but he can't help feeling just a little bit used. He understands on the track, where they are rivals and nothing more, Jake never asked for favours, maybe he'd been naïve expecting Pascal to have his back. A mistake he keeps making.
Under him, Pascal hisses from the first finger, Jake takes a deep breath. Trying to cool off. He doesn't actually want to hurt the other man.
“Sorry.” He mumbles, busying himself with squirting more lube between them so he doesn't have to see his reaction.
Pascal shifts, planting his feet and tilting his hips up. The angle makes it easier, more of a straight shot for Jake. He rubs slow circles on the others thigh, waiting for him to relax. For his part Pascal watches his movements, like he doesn't trust Jake to know what he’s doing even after all this time. Licking his lips with anticipation when he sees Jake prepping a second finger.
“That's it, champ, you just sit back and do nothing.” He smiles ironically. Welcoming the creeping dark blush spreading over his collarbones. His own neglected cock swells even more at the sight. He thinks maybe he could give this up if the other man wasn't so hot. Pascal smirks like he can read Jake's thoughts and the Andretti driver twists his fingers. Smirking himself when the pretty Germans pretty lips fall open in a gasp.
“You almost ready for me?” He teases, unable to stand the quiet. Their joint breathing filling the room is driving him crazy. Pascal's eyes narrow at him but his hips buck up, never one to back down from a challenge. Pretty soon it won't matter if he's ready or not, Jake's not going to hold on much longer. Pascal can take it, he'd always been good at that.
The German must take his threat to heart, actively engaging for the first time. Visibly relaxing under hand and rolling his hips to meet Jake's fingers, his abs glisten with a fine layer of sweat as they move his body. Jake has to squeeze himself, dizzy with arousal, doing times tables in his head to hold off until the smaller man is ready.
A couple of years ago, in that other life, the one where they still looked each other in the eyes. He'd joked that it reflected his uptight personality. Pascal had laughed for real that time, tongue poking out between his teeth, nose scrunched up in joy and not disdain.
Then came Jakarta and London and a whole season where the man who should have had his back was busy taking points from him. Looking at him wide eyed and innocent after the fact.
“This is racing Jake.” He'd say. Like Jake was an idiot. Like he was crazy to expect his lover to not attack him at every opportunity or pull crazy moves when there was a championship on the line. It had hurt, he'd re-evaluated.
He's barely got a third finger in when the condom is once again being waved in his face, Pascal's short fingernails catching down his arm. Jake wants to bite each one.
“Just use more lube.” The German shrugs at his questioning look. Moving a pillow under his hips. Jake bites his tongue against arguing. What does he care if this is a terrible idea, it's not his ass.
“Whatever.” He grunts, coating himself in lube, looking anywhere but the man on the bed. Pushing his legs wider so he can slot between them. He wipes the excess lube over coarse hair covered shins, earning himself a kick in the side.
Breaching is …difficult. Just like most things with Pascal. As he lines himself up the body below still feels unbearably tight, his heart beats like crazy, knowing they're underprepared forces him to swallow down panic. Pascal’s eyes track his progress, almost daring Jake to back out. He refuses to give the other man the satisfaction. The Porsche driver shifts his legs, rock hard muscles shifting under Jakes palm and he manages to slip past that ring of muscle with a hiss.
“Don't stop.” Pascal’s voice wavers. Jake wants to ask if he's okay. Choosing instead to stroke the quivering tendons under his palm, progressing with slow rocks to try and give his body time to adjust.
“Fuck okay just give me a minute.”
Like normal Pascal doesn't listen, hooking his leg over Jake's hip pulling the Brit towards him. He bottoms out with a jolt, ecstasy burning through his body. They fall forward together, Jake thinks he loses time, the pressure around him so extreme, so warm and soft, encouraging him to furrow deeper and never leave. Cursing he gets his hands under him. Pushing up drivers a muffled yell from the Porsche driver, tears filling his bottomless eyes, not quite breaking free.
“Scheiße.” Pascal moans, chest shaking. He's not even looking at Jake. Like the man's not balls deep in his ass. Jake growls, overcome with frustration and hurt that's been bubbling under the surface for too long. His thumbs find the frustratingly familiar dips in Pascal's hip bones, pinning him to the mattress.
He sets a brutal pace. Flat out from lap one, todays winning strategy. Pleased when he looks up to see brown eyes squeezed shut. How dare Pascal ruin this by using him, tainting every last memory that Jake gets to have with his indifference. It's beyond cruel.
Around him the heat and pressure is so extreme, muscles struggling to adjust and accommodate his sizable intrusion, he slows just slightly, adding some finesse to his frenzied movements, letting the smaller man catch his breath. He wishes he had it in him to hate Pascal the way he knows he should.
“Scheiße, Scheiße,Scheiße, Schuuu.”
Jake aims for that spot he knows he shouldn't care about finding. Smiling with an almost primal glee as Pascal throws his head back, throat bobbing around a high pitched whine. Jake accepts the offering gladly, mouthing at the sweat slicked skin. Shuddering when Pascal's hands find his hair, hanging onto Jake with trembling fingers. He hides his satisfaction with kisses pressed into collarbones.
Now that he’s found the angle he drills forward mercilessly, knowing Pascal will appreciate a stable rhythm. Not that he cares what the German wants. He’s completely indifferent to the way his lithe body has wrapped around Jake’s taller frame, arms and legs pulling him closer not pushing him away. It’s totally not the most complete Jake's felt in months.
“Fuck Pascal, come on.” His legs are straining, heat building in his stomach. The other man is definitely close. Words giving way to satisfied moans that will echo through Jake's dreams possibly until the day he dies. He's sure that, against his will, this moment is already being firmly stored away in his minds wank bank.
Gripping Pascals waist harder, he concentrates on pulling him down to meet the thrusts. Moaning, picturing him wincing tomorrow as he gets in the car, every corner will shift his body, pressing unforgiving metal against fresh bruises. Burying himself deep with a smile knowing there's no possible way Pascal can ignore him like this.
“Come on.” He grunts, breathless. Pascal's biting his hand, tension lining his frame. Completely overcome Jake wretches his arm above his head, pinning it with a sneer.
“Fucking let them hear, come on scream for me.” Pascal jerks, eyes wide, mouth not snapping shut quick enough to cut off the loud moan that escapes. He can tell he’s annoyed that Jake pulled it out of him, the sensation only serving to spur Jake on. He thinks about smashing their lips together, swallowing down all the pretty sounds the Germans trying hard to deprive him of. Forcing his way inside the warm, moist cavern until the German has no choice but to conceded to Jake's superiority.
“You can't even say it can you? Can't bring yourself to admit how good I am. Bet no one else fucks you like this.” He wraps his other palm around the Germans weeping cock, dribbling miserably against his stomach, feeling the small bones of his wrist creak under Jake's weight.
Pascal's eyes blaze into him but he bites his lip stubbornly. The hand still buried in his hair spasms, fingers digging into his scalp. It's Jake that looks away first, almost collapsing when his orgasm rips through him. Leaving a cold empty path right from his dick up through his chest to his dry throat. Like all the emotion has been sucked out of him.
Pascal holds him up with his one free hand, still moving his hips haphazardly and Jake has the presence of mind to squeeze and flick his wrist until molten lava explodes, scalding his hand and stomach.
He's not stupid enough to try and enjoy the afterglow. The vacuum inside replaced with creeping anxiety and resentment already, as the futility of what they just did catches up with him. Strangely, Pascal’s not demanding he pulls out, so Jake enjoys watching his ribs strain, chest shuddering as his lungs struggle to fill. Shifting his grip, he watches the German circle his wrist, guilt and satisfaction mixing equally at the sight.
The mess between them is becoming uncomfortable, still Jake won't be the first to move, holding his breath when Pascal reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. Eyes tracing his jaw, tender, sweet and almost melancholy, no one else has ever looked at Jake like that.
The Andretti drivers caught between head and heart. Desperate to sink beneath the inky black midnight waves and collapse into Pascal’s arms. While simultaneously, with his lust satiated, Jake can't help but look down and see his rival. Mistrust and betrayal make his skin crawls at being so close, at any moment the Porsche man could transform into a snake and swallow him whole. If nothing else Jake’s not in the habit of fucking his competition. Pascal cups his head pulling Jake close to whisper in his ear, his heart swells threatening to beat out of his chest.
“Jake. Get out of me, and try not to get disqualified again.” His voice is hoarse, almost choked with an emotion the Brit can’t identify. He would give up a good number of his podiums for just a hint of the affection he used to take for granted.
Locking down his emotions, he settles on the only one that will get him out of this room with his heart in tact. Channelling loathing into every fibre of his being, he stares down into the Germans glassy warm eyes. He wants to slap him. He wants to kiss him. He wants to kiss then slap him or maybe the other way around. With a wave of forced aggression he pulls the smaller man off his cock, choosing to shove him up the bed rather then move his own hips. Just to show the arrogant German who's really in charge.
Pascal groans, breath hitching. A pained sound that hurts Jakes chest. He quickly stamps on the emotion, allowing only his anger to drive his actions. Silencing any further complaints by pressing his fingers, still sticky with cum between pearly white teeth. Only 50% sure Pascal won't bite him.
The element of surprise gives him a good three seconds of satisfaction. Curls dried flat against Pascal’s head bounce with the force of him wrenching away, squirming into the mattress. His tongue attempting to push the intrusion out before he manages to move his arms. Only serving to clear more of the nasty white substance from Jake's skin.
He lets the German push and kick him hard off the bed, caustic laughter burning his gums. Forcing himself not to look down at the smaller man. Not to notice his tired, stiff movements or pinched expression.
“Fotze.” His voice sounds like gravel, Jake drinks it up.
“You took it like a champ, champ.” He strolls to the bathroom. Tying off the condom and washing his hands and dick in the sink. He'll have a shower in his own room, one without curly hair products or a beard trimmer on the side.
Re-entering the main room he takes in his rival. Sat on the edge of the bed, biting his lip, Pascal's made a valiant effort to not look fucked out. He's pulled some boxers on, which must be uncomfortable. He'll probably scrub himself clean as soon as he's out the room. He can't imagine Pascal will want any part of Jake on him.
Before he can be caught looking, the taller man lowers his gaze, keeping his head down as he collects his clothes. From the corner of his eyes he watches the Germans face go carefully blank. Studying the Tokyo skyline, electric blue and purple stretched out in front of them, like it's the most interesting art he's ever seen. Jake does the same, only he's focused on the slope of the Porsche drivers shoulders, the freckles on his arms, the scar under his fourth rib.
Pascal won't ask him to leave but Jake knows he can't stay. Inside this room, with Pascal, is the last place on earth he would ever want to be. That has to be the truth. These tumultuous emotions, so big and so strong, can only be hatred for the man that's wronged him so intimately. There's no other explanation for his heart fluttering, skin prickling, stomach swooping when he sees the other man.
“I'll see you at the track.” Pascal calls as his hand hits the door handle.
“Yeah mate, I'll make sure to look for you in my mirrors.”