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Tonight, Pecco feels mean. He wears his cruelty on his sleeve, allowing himself to bite and snap at people around him, gives himself a singular night to metaphorically knock it all over. One night. Because tomorrow, he thinks, will be the day for him to play the good guy again, to be the man he really is. The happily married man, the talented motorcyclist, the Valentino Rossi protégé, the poster boy for Italian prosperity and success. Tomorrow, he will slink back from wherever he has ended up with his tail between his legs, will apologise for the stinging hurt, and he will truly mean it. But that version of himself is reserved for tomorrow.
“Okay,” the guy says, mild, “so you are not very good at your job, and you are sad, is this what I am understanding?”
Pecco’s nose twists up particularly nastily and he’s tense like a rubber band stretched thin, but he forces a lid over it and bares his teeth instead of his soul. He is good at his job that feels like more than a job and much more like breathing. He’s great at it, even. He’d even call himself one of the modern greats, if he could ever evict the self-flagellating voice that has taken up permanent residence in the back of his head. Four championships, more wins than many could ever dream of. Nevertheless, there are moments like this where he still feels like a little kid, falling behind.
“Not sad,” he says, looking over his drink as he searches for a better word. His fingers circle the narrow rim absently, he cringes when the friction between his finger and the condensation of the glass produces a low whine. “Lost…”
“Because you are not good enough at your job.” The guy supplies, clearly sated by his own words. He throws back his last shot of tequila and wipes his mouth with the back of a tattooed hand, before poring over Pecco like he’s some sort of neon bug. Then, after he’s soaked in enough of a look, he says, rather unhelpfully, “Maybe next time you will go out and instead try to be better.”
Pecco rolls his eyes, signals to the bartender for another round anyway. “It doesn’t work like that.”
“Why not?” The guy says, his voice firm. “You get on the bike and you beat the rest of them.”
His words knock Pecco for six. “Who said anything about bikes?”
The guy looks at him, eyes huge and wet. He laughs a little, shifts in his seat to turn and look at him from an angle. “Okay,” he says, raising his hands up in surrender. His hands are big and wide, and Pecco can tell from here that they are working hands—scars and calluses mar his palms, but his nails are bitten. “Maybe it is because we are far away from home. You didn’t expect another Italian here, no? In Spain?”
“Oh,” says Pecco, his voice faltering. He forgets himself, sometimes, even if only for a moment, and it’s always merciless, the way he’s yanked back to reality. “And you’re from?”
“Rimini.”
“Torino.”
“Hm,” the man says, “at least that I did not know.”
“But there are so many things you know about me that I do not know about you.”
The bartender arrives with their round. “Like what?”
“Your name, for one.”
“Marco.”
“And is that your real name?”
Marco laughs. “Look. In this bar, in this place, you can be anybody you want.” He leans close, his breath warm and inviting by Pecco’s ear. “Anything, Pecco.” He pulls back, but only slightly, his nose at Pecco’s cheek. He smiles as Pecco stills under his touch, his eyes big at the notion. It’s forever a heady thought, even if it’s one Pecco has had several times before.
Maybe it’s different, now, here, because someone is allowing him. Telling him he can. Guiding him through it. Maybe he will take it, maybe he will bite.
“Don’t you want to be someone else, even just for the night?”
Pecco pulls back his shot.
—
“The only rule—” Pecco says, swallowing the rest of his words as Marco presses a kiss to the hinge of his jaw, “—is no marks.” Marco’s tongue goes flat and wide as it slides over his Adam's apple, chasing it as Pecco talks. The reward must outweigh the risks as Marco makes that move anyway, nipping at the skin where skin meets. “Fuck you, I said no marks,” Pecco repeats, low and whiny, but he bucks into his touch.
He realises, a little late, that he’s gripping at Marco’s screen printed shirt so tightly that his hands are starting to shake.
Marco pulls back. “Okay,” he murmurs, his nose finding Pecco’s jaw again. “Just so your wife doesn’t find out.”
Whenever thoughts Pecco so achingly wants to have about that remark are extinguished by Marco reaching out with a big hand to fumble with the button of his jean shorts. His belly jumps as one of Marco’s knuckles skips across it, and Pecco’s own desperate hands find his own waist to help pull down his shorts to the mid thigh. The waistband labors against his eager, open legs, but it seems like Marco doesn’t even care—he’s running a hand over the head of Pecco’s cock, a wet patch blooming where the tip lies in Peccco’s boxers. Pecco’s belly twitches again when Marco presses at the tip with his thumb, firm, but he doesn’t speak, just looks up, wordless.
“Spit in my palm.”
Pecco looks up at him, his lips almost pinched shut.
Marco sighs, but only slightly, thumbs at his lower lip, the tip of his finger forcing its way in and breaking the seal of Pecco’s screwed up mouth. There’s no resistance when he really pushes, Pecco’s mind and lips severing all connection. His mouth just goes dumb and opens up for Marco, and he lets him tongue go warm and flat around his finger, but he doesn’t know what he’d do if Marco takes it there, pushes a little more, if he forces his thumb further into his mouth—
Instead, he yanks hard back hard, leaving Pecco a drooling, gasping mess. “Francesco, you asshole, spit in my palm.”
Pecco gasps again but does, his mouth pressed close into Marco’s awaiting hand. It’s such a strange kind of filth that Pecco doesn’t even look at it—his eyes screw shut and he wipes his mouth, rough, with the back of his hand, his chest heaving. He feels so warm, so sticky, so hot already. Marco rubs a non-abrasive touch over Pecco’s belly, the kindness almost startling.
When Marco gets a hand around Pecco’s dick, it’s warm and firm, and he watches for a reaction; snorts when Pecco gasps and grinds into it. He’s languid, lazy with it, scratches a bitten nail along the path of a vein, flits his thumb over the tip a few times. Pecco’s resolve breaks and he moans, loud, when Marco pushes him all the way down so he can reach out with his tongue, pressing it to the where precome has formed a bead at the slit. It’s sticky, messy, spit and sweat and precome all over Pecco’s groin. Marco keeps at it, though, lapping at the tip of Pecco’s cock and sliding his hand, rhythmless, from the base to just beneath his tongue.
“Marco,” Pecco says, boneless, “Marco.”
Marco pulls back a little and Pecco can see from here the line of spit that goes from Marco’s bottom lip to the tip of his cock, can see the way sweat causes Marco’s hair to stick to his temples, can see the slight sheen of it on his forehead. He goes rigid, his stomach tight, and then comes all over Marco’s face.
“Fuck,” he gasps, trembling though the comedown, “fuck, I didn’t—I didn’t mean to, Marco, I’m sorry.”
Marco pulls back, confused. “Didn’t mean to come?”
“So quickly,” Pecco says, his voice thin. He props himself up on his shoulders, reaching out a hand. “And on your face.”
Marco snorts, shrugging him off, and wipes the back of his hand across where Pecco’s come has landed on his cheeks and forehead. He eventually gets close to Pecco and spreads open one big hand to show Pecco how dirty it all is, how his hands are already stained, the translucent slick sticky against the grooves of his pink palms. Pecco groans.
“Let me do you, then,” he says, voice needy. He grabs at the wrist of the hand that Marco’s got outstretched in front of him but Marco stands up and pushes him away. “Marco,” Pecco repeats, pleading up at him,“it’s only fair. You did me, let me do you.”
“Blow me, you mean.”
Pecco blinks, his eyes round and soft, and his lips move, but his words falter.
“Marco,” Marco says into the silence, “let me blow you. Marco, let me give you a handjob. Not, Marco, let me ‘do’ you. You cheat on your wife but you are not even brave enough to say it, Francesco. Plus,” he adds, his voice softening, “I am not letting you blow me.”
Francesco thinks of her, of her hair, her smile, her mouth on him, the way they are two halves that make a perfect whole.
And yet—“Why not?”
Marco shrugs, easy. “Because.”
Pecco flops back, annoyed. “Can’t I be someone else for the night?”
“Hey,” Marco snips, but there’s no bite in it. “You’re not allowed to be mad at me when I’ve got your come on my face.”
“But I’m not mad at you,” Pecco says, small, to the back of the figure that’s already disappearing into the bathroom. “I don’t even really know you, how can I be mad at you?”
Marco pauses in the doorway. “Listen,” he says, sighing as he thinks about it, “when I get back, I want you to fuck me, alright?”
Pecco pauses, swallows hard. “Okay.”
Marco returns completely naked, bare and beautiful. He’s tan and lovely, firm in all the right places and supple in all the next. Fine hairs are like pinpricks across his belly and his chest, and scars track across his collarbone. It’s only now that Pecco can see the full extent of his tattoos. and it’s obvious that Marco has many more than him, a myriad of designs snaking across one thigh and a few others dotted across his chest and hips. Some are old and blown out, but that makes him seem more human, somehow. As if he isn’t a figment of Pecco’s wildest imaginations.
“Is that a tattoo of your dog or something?”
Marco looks down at himself, as if he too is also surprised at the reality of a tattoo of his own dog across his leg. “Huh,” he says lazily. “It is.”
“I assume you don’t get many blowjobs.”
Marco laughs, loud, before sinking down onto the bed, leans forward to press a gentle mouth to him. “You say that like you weren’t just offering.”
”Touché.”
Marco reaches out and kisses the slight frown off his mouth, his tongue lapping at his lips, his jaw, his neck. “You’re still going to fuck me, no?”
”Only if you want.”
“Of course I want. I’ve been wanting since I first touched you.”
Marco makes haste to get him completely naked, and then for a moment he’s just kissing at him, laying him down to hold him in his hands. They kiss for what feels like hours, before Marco wriggles down and says, fishing for the hotel room lube: “I’m going to open myself up for you.”
Pecco can only watch as Marco spreads his legs wide, makes space for his hands, watches how his muscles strain under the effort of it all. It’s beautiful, devastatingly so. The slick sheen of exertion makes Marco’s face pink and beautiful, and when he presses the first finger into himself, for the first time in a long time, Pecco’s world goes quiet.
“Francesco,” Marco gasps, his mouth parted and pink. “Pecco, watch me. Look at me.” Another digit chases the first and he goes rigid, his face whiting out. He’s cruel with it, incessant and rhythmic but almost uncaring. His eyes stray up to the ceiling, but they’re glassy, wet.
“Let me fuck you,” Pecco pleads, encircling Marco’s wrist with both hands, “please, Marco, let me fuck you.”
Marco gives, and Pecco takes.
Pecco angles him like a doll, his palms pushing apart scraped knees, pulling on supple thighs. Marco shivers when Pecco touches him there. He’s trembling as he slips the condom on, so much so that Marco fumbles it on the rest of the way, and then he’s pushing past the first ring of muscle, taking everything Marco has to offer. He tucks himself into the space between two strong thighs, chases a high he didn’t know existed.
Marco gets a hand between himself and it’s sticky, slick, and sweaty, and he’s mewling and gasping into Pecco’s neck, nuzzling at the hairs that curl around the base of his head.
Pecco’s not sure when he comes, just feels Marco cry out and tighten around him, tumbling into his own orgasm. He feels as he comes all over the pair of them, collapsing on top of him into the mess.
Marco pulls back, stares him straight in the eye: “Do you fuck your wife like that?”