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Doha (Losail International Circuit)
Lorenzo could only grin at the atmosphere in parc firmé. Pole position and race win. Did a season start any better? His team swamped him and gave a good try to pull him over the barrier; backslaps and half-hugs all around.
The immediate post-race interviews went well, him finishing each one with a cheeky “I could get used to this, no?” One particularly daring reporter asked if he wasn’t already, and Jorge’s grin widened. She was definitely his favourite.
Out to the podium- handshake, trophy, solemn stand for the national anthem- grin notwithstanding- and then photos. He missed the champagne, but reassured himself there would be plenty of other opportunities yet. Arms out and around the other two on the podium- hands on Vale’s ribs and Dani’s shoulders. It was always worth a laugh to notice just how tiny his fellow Spanish rider was. Just the right height to lean up and mutter, “Don’t get used to this,” quietly enough that only the three of them could hear. Jorge knew exactly what he meant, but when handed a straight up line-
“Like you don’t throw yourself into my arms at every opportunity.”
An elbow was subtly inserted into his ribs, and Jorge jumped. “Bastard,” he hissed.
“Arsehole,” Dani hissed back.
Valentino made himself known with a patronising smile. “I know that Spanish- keep friendly for cameras, boys.”
They smiled in unison. Neither was a natural expression.
“Next race, I’ll be on top of the podium.”
Jorge laughed, fooling the reporters into thinking he was amused. “And if that happens, I’d still be taller than you even from the third step.”
Dani surprised him then- he cracked a lopsided grin. “That’s the best you can come up with?” he asked. “I’ve been this tall since I was thirteen- believe me, I’ve heard it all.”
Jorge blinked and maybe waited a tad too long to reply- the grin disappeared. He wanted that grin back. “Believe me- I’m just getting started,” he said, as the reporters finally took their leave.
With a wry look at the night-time post-race furor, Dani put in the last word. “Aren’t we all?”
Qatar was the only night race on the circuit, and always the first of the season. Begrudgingly, Jorge conceded the point, and made a supreme effort to ignore his teammate’s baying laughter.
Austin (Circuit of the Americas)
In deference to the man in third place, Dani chose to rib Jorge in English.
(He may have also noticed that the second and third place men were having far too much of a good time together. Dani would never admit that it was jealously at being ignored, but in its denial he knew that was exactly it.)
“Said not to get used to it,” he muttered after the obligatory podium smiles. He then cringed, because as obvious comments go, this barely (if at all) ranked above Lorenzo’s previous comment about his height.
Jorge burst out laughing. Dani couldn’t decide if he was complimented or offended.
“So witty,” the Majorcan wheezed between gasps for air.
“Now you are being sarcastic,” Dani said, for lack of anything else coming to mind. He accepted the implied insult to himself for the chance to keep the conversation going (to get another chance to poke fun at Jorge).
Cal Crutchlow, third place, was grinning. Dani felt a sense of foreboding, like he was about to be tag-teamed in short order.
“Coming from Jorge, that’s a compliment, mate,” Cal said.
“No, really isn’t,” Dani told the Englishman, sharper than he perhaps deserved.
But Cal still grinned away, no offence taken. “Probably not,” he agreed cheerily, and wandered off to his mechanics.
Dani turned back to glare at the Majorcan, who wasn’t even trying to hide his amusement. “What?” he growled.
“I can’t count this result as a loss,” Jorge managed to get out, switching to Spanish but continuing their original conversation. Annoyingly, Dani understood what the man meant.
As the points went, Jorge was ahead. It was only two races into the season, but they (as racers) tended to live in the moment more than most.
“Early days,” he replied. Far from annoying the man, Jorge seemed pleased Dani was on the same track as himself.
This in and of itself insulted Dani. He may never have won a MotoGP world championship, but he dared anybody to doubt his winning credentials. They would not win such an argument.
He wondered briefly why he was so sharp with Cal- the man might be Jorge’s friend, but he’s never done anything to earn Dani’s dislike.
Strange, he mused, then put it out of his mind.
Jerez (Circuito de Jerez)
Dani looked at Lorenzo, and to the man standing between them. Jorge looked at the other man, the Spanish monarch, their king, and back to Pedrosa.
No podium was worth this.
“Excuse me?” He coughed, and belatedly added “Your majesty?”
“It was not a complicated request,” His Majesty Juan Carlos I said. “Shake hands like gentlemen and thank each other for the entertaining race.”
They were back to staring at each other again. Then Dani sighed and held out his hand. “Thank you, Jorge, for the entertaining race,” he parroted. His eyes said something different entirely.
Jorge smiled his best smarmy-bastard smile, until he remembered that Pedrosa had in fact won this round. He quickly reached out to shake the proffered hand, holding it for the bare minimum of time he could get away with. “You’re welcome,” he replied to Dani’s insincere gratitude. “Congratulations on your win, Dani.”
Jorge blinked. Somewhere along the line, his congratulations had become genuine. There was the base jealousy of seeing someone else take the winner’s trophy, but he was almost glad that if it couldn’t be him, it was Pedrosa doing it.
Dani was his closest competition; Jorge supposed if he wanted a battle for the title this year, Pedrosa was the man to bring it.
King Juan Carlos I smiled, hearing the tone of the words louder than what was said. “Keep your rivalry to the track, boys. It’s much more fun that way.”
The king dismissed them, and the racers hurried to bow. With amusement, Jorge noticed his was much smoother than Dani’s.
As they were walking out, it hit him what he was thinking.
Dani turned back at the sound of Lorenzo laughing. “What’s funny?” He dared the other Spaniard to be laughing at him.
“Is the bad bowing a Catalan thing, or a you thing?” As Dani bristled, Jorge waved him off. “Never mind. Just realising that keeping the competition to the track is easier said than done.”
Pedrosa eyed him suspiciously. “You’re planning to listen?”
Lorenzo stopped and stared at him. “Aren’t you? He is our king.”
“It was informal advice.”
“So it’s definitely a Catalan thing,” Jorge decided. “Anyway, just because we don’t hate each other anymore-”
“Hate each other? I never said-”
“-doesn’t mean we have to like each other.” Jorge realised he’d spoken over the other rider. “Sorry, you were saying?”
Dani was suddenly very interested in their surroundings, though there was little of interest there to rescue him from this turn in the conversation. It was harder to say when Lorenzo was actually listening.
He swallowed, and repeated himself. “I never said I hated you.”
Jorge tried to find something to say, and defaulted to honesty. “Me either,” he said softly. Then he grinned. “Now to make the rest of the world believe it!”
In spite of himself, Dani managed a small smile in return.
Le Mans (Bugatti Circuit)
“This is ridiculous,” Jorge growled, looking out at the weather. “Europe’s meant to be coming into summer right now!”
"It's all lies," his technician muttered, glaring at the water pouring down outside the garage. "You might as well go, Jorge- we won't get anything more useful out of the data tonight."
Jorge checked his watch. It was unusually early; he gave his technician a look.
"Seriously, go!" Shooing motions were made, echoed by the mechanic close enough to hear their conversation. "You looking over our shoulders for the rest of the evening is not going to help."
The rider sighed dramatically. "Fine, I can see when I'm not wanted."
His timing could not have been better (and somehow, simultaneously worse), since Dani Pedrosa picked that moment to stroll past the open garage door, overhear Jorge's last comment, and mutter "That'd be the day," not quietly enough.
Jorge pegged it after the Honda rider, now uncaring of the deluge, and stopped short before he got close enough to say anything.
Dani had paused before entering the Honda garage. He'd closed his eyes and cast his face skywards, apparently enjoying the rain.
The image struck Jorge still. Dani put up a certain facade in public- they all did, to an extent, but him more than most- and watching his simple pleasure in the French rain seemed an unbearably intimate moment to intrude on.
It was also an indubitably beautiful moment, which was why it was so hard to look away.
He'd never considered the other man beautiful before, and now Jorge couldn't understand why not.
No amount of data could rescue his shot concentration that weekend, and Dani enjoyed an easy victory while he barely rescued sixth place.
(His concentration didn't really improve, per say, not even years down the line, but Jorge did get very good at compartmentalising.)
Scarperia (Mugello Circuit)
He isn’t aware it’s Rossi, his teammate, who went down in the first lap until he checks his pit board three laps in. By the semi-sarcastic thumbs up he gets from the crew, they realise he’s finally got the message. With a grin, Lorenzo is now less concerned with who’s behind him and wholly focussed on catching up with Dani Pedrosa, who is looking dangerously close to riding off into the distance with this race too.
Not on Jorge’s watch, he isn’t.
Dani doesn’t have to check his pit board to know who it is behind him. Jorge’s been aggressive all weekend, trying to make up for his perceived failings at the previous race. Dani’s never tried to tell anyone, It’s okay, second is a good result, (let alone sixth, and what was going on with him that weekend?) not when he knows any racer achieving seconds is perfectly capable and more desirous of firsts, and especially not when he is the person who did manage first, and thus can only sound patronising in his attempted sympathy.
He blinks to clear his mind. Getting sidetracked during a race is a barely disguised (career) suicide attempt.
But try as he might, the Yamaha engine gets louder (and closer) every lap.
Then it passes him.
Then Lorenzo starts getting some distance between them, and Dani can only wonder what Yamaha have put in that fuel tank, because it can’t be the same unleaded running through everybody else’s bikes. Jorge’s lap times are obscenely quick, unmatchable, despite his best tries.
He sets himself up to drive a lonely race- too slow to catch first, too fast for third to catch- and nearly loses his position for his arrogance.
He is not losing a position to Cal Crutchlow, especially if he’s sharing a podium with him and Lorenzo again.
Just- no. Lorenzo’s smug enough and Dani refuses to give up more points than he has to. Having his English friend doing so well, ahead of his rival, is a scenario Dani refuses to contemplate.
(Dani isn’t jealous of the easy smiles Cal and Jorge shared on the last podium. That’s not what happened, he has decided.
Just- no.)
-*-
There’s a brief respite in the waiting room, when adrenaline is still race-high, the podium celebration has not released the pent up tension and most mercifully, the cameras are absent. It lasts maybe all of thirty seconds, but that is long enough most weekends for the important stuff.
The important stuff, this weekend, apparently comprises of Cal and Jorge slapping each other on the back and babbling their congratulations at each other, because neither is quiet for the amount of time required to make it a conversation.
But then Jorge looks at him. Dani rolls his eyes and mutters (in Spanish, because he isn’t going to make the mistake that was Texas again, and no, he still won’t admit it’s petty jealousy making him act this way), “If you want to tell me well done¸ that was a great second place, don’t bother.”
“Hypocrite,” Jorge snarks back immediately (he can’t count on his all his extremities the races this man has won by riding off into the sunset alone), “But I have more respect for you than that, Dani.”
They both blink in surprise when his first name comes out of Jorge’s mouth without outside prompting.
But then Cal’s being called to his third place podium, and the cameras have finally arrived.
(Dani blinks at the content of Jorge’s words too, it must be noted. He immediately squashes any kind of feeling in his chest said content causes. He’s going for the double this season it seems- jealousy and denial, and if there’s a third part to it, he doesn’t want to know.)
Barcelona (Circuit de Catalunya)
Jorge can’t stop smiling (yes, he’s won, go figure, but it’s more than that). For all the top three is similar to Le Mans- himself, Pedrosa, second Yamaha- the atmosphere couldn’t be more different.
Dani is smiling.
Barcelona, Land of Miracles. Even as he thinks of asking the question, he knows it’s the difference a home race makes.
And he knows- there’s echoes here, of how they felt after Brno last year but this time Dani had overcooked it into the corner, and Jorge had won. This podium is sweeter than his last for how much more he worked for it- not just overtaking, but swapping places (and at one point, with the horror of a near crash, paint).
And he knows exactly what he wants to say now. He holds out his hand and gives it his best faux, blinding smile. “Thanks, Dani, for the entertaining race,” he parrots from memory.
Dani blinks in confusion for a second, then realises what he’s meant to say in return.
Even a year ago, Dani would have shrugged, been only as polite as he had to be before going to his team.
This year, it’s fair to say the cameras love it much more when Dani snorts, but gamely pumps Jorge’s wrist. “You’re welcome,” he remembers Jorge saying. “Congratulations on your win, Jorge.” He shakes their hands one last time, grins and then commences his usual post-race routine.
Jorge catches sight of Valentino behind Dani’s bike, who’s looking between them with some puzzlement.
“What?” he says defensively.
Assen (TT Circuit Assen)
“You arsehole.”
Jorge stopped his contemplation of the medical sheets and saw Dani glaring at him. “Practice over?” He asked lightly.
Dani rolled his eyes and stepped into the room, taking the visitor’s chair. “Assen’s a good track. Fun. Why, then, have you sidelined yourself and made my upcoming race less exciting?”
This time, Jorge rolled his eyes. “Because I do not race solely to be of use to you.”
Dani had to crack a grin. “The sole reason you exist should be to be of use to me.” Sobering abruptly, Dani took in the heavy bandages covering Jorge’s shoulder. “How long are you out for?”
Like an idiot, Jorge shrugged.
Then he froze, yelped (as Dani put it later) and very carefully relaxed his shoulder again. “Not too long. Germany at the latest.”
Dani nodded. “Two weeks. You’ve only broken your collarbone, after all.”
His sarcasm didn’t quite hide the worry in his tone. Jorge tried not to show how touched he was by that worry.
“Like you can talk. Have you had one season uninjured since you started racing?”
Begrudgingly, Dani admitted Jorge would probably win that argument.
“Besides which, I am still being of use to you. You’ve got potentially 25 points to pull out on me.”
Dani liked Jorge a little less after that statement.
(Dani barely admitted that he liked Jorge in the first place. The visit to the on-site medical was reconnaissance. Jorge was his closest rival by far, so Dani needed to know what was going on with him. That was all.)
Standing up, Dani bit out a goodbye and a parting shot.
“I’d be no champion if I couldn’t race you and beat you at full health. Don’t patronise me.”
Jorge watched him leave with a fond smile. He later blamed this on the drugs in his system.
Then, Jorge summoned his doctor and asked exactly how many painkillers he could take to race on Sunday.
-*-
It was worth every injection for the look on Dani’s face when he saw Jorge make his way on to the grid.
(It was slightly less worth it with the Honda rider grinning down on him from the podium.)
Hohenstein-Ernstthal (Sachsenring)
“Oi!” Jorge banged on the motorhome’s door again. He knew the little bastard was in there. But fifteen minutes later still, it was apparent that Dani didn’t want to talk to him.
Fine. It was time to bring out the big guns.
“I can understand not wanting to race me, honestly, who would? But faking a medical emergency is below you, Pedrosa.”
He carefully calculated the pause. “Barely. Admittedly, it’s difficult to find anything below you.”
He counted four seconds before the door was wrenched open. When he saw the Honda rider, Jorge had to squash any soft, cuddly feeling that might have resembled remorse.
“I crashed, arsehole,” Dani glared at the unrepentant Majorcan. “And I swear we’ve had this conversation about my height before.”
“You look like shit,” Jorge replied, instead of something normal or appropriate, like ‘sorry’.
Dani’s glare was a pale imitation of his normal glare, but then, Dani was pretty. Pale. Pretty pale. He had on low slung jeans and a comically oversized hoodie, a far cry from his normal attire. “I was sleeping,” he said slowly. What do you want?”
Jorge wondered if he should call bullshit, because he’d been making a racket for twenty minutes, and if Dani could sleep through that (remorse was threatening to come out again) it was time to be seriously worried.
Jorge also refused to be a wuss, so he floundered when searching for a desire that wasn’t as simple as, ‘I wanted to see if you were okay.’
With a sigh, Dani stepped aside and waved him in. They took awkward seats on the sofa and bar stool, nearly as far away from each other as possible.
Suddenly, Jorge thumped his head on the wall behind his seat. “I’m out, too,” he admitted. “Doctor’s orders.”
Dani raised an eyebrow. “You raced a day after breaking your collarbone. It’s meant to be well on its way to mended now.”
Jorge nodded bitterly. “I raced a day after breaking my collarbone,” he agreed. “Then I crashed two weeks later. In hindsight, it was perhaps not… my smartest decision.”
And Dani didn’t have to say anything, for all he’d been handed a perfect line. Jorge read this in his expression, and rolled his eyes.
“Your silence speaks volumes,” he said drily, “But I appreciate the effort.”
“Happy to help,” Dani smiled his wry smile.
But then Jorge started chuckling, because it hit him: this is what friends do. They visit their friends, and they mope together and work their way around to cheering each other up.
Somehow, he and Dani Pedrosa were friends. God only knew when that happened.
So he decided to ask.
“Why did you visit me in Assen? At medical?”
And he realised something else. Dani Pedrosa, God help him, was a blusher.
Jorge could work wonders with that kind of ammunition. He debated wiping the amusement and utter delight off his face before Dani saw it, but was revelling in too much.
“Shut it,” Dani hissed. “It just- seemed like a good idea at the time? Reconnaissance and what not?”
The Majorcan was close to breaking a cheekbone with the effort it took not to grin. “If that wasn’t a question- nah, I still wouldn’t believe you,” he answered.
Dani shrugged, regaining his composure. “That’s really all there is to it. I don’t really know why- just somewhere along the line, we became the sort of acquaintances that check up on each other after bad accidents. Why are you here today?”
Jorge let his grin loose. “What can I say? Somewhere along the line, we became the kind of friends who check up on each other when they’re obviously not okay.”
His friend cocked his head, studying Jorge intently. Dani blinked, belatedly coming to the same conclusion Jorge had.
His reaction was slightly less fond, however.
“What are your doctor’s orders concerning alcohol?” Dani asked as he moved to the fridge.
“Don’t, generally,” Jorge said flippantly. “Why?”
“This is not an epiphany I can have sober. It’s not like we’re racing, anyway.”
Jorge looked at Honda’s golden boy sidelong. “Are you trying to corrupt your younger rival?”
Dani snorted and uncapped two beers. “Nineteen months really is an age to you, isn’t it?” He held one out to Jorge- not pressuring, but making the offer nonetheless.
Jorge took it, and Dani smirked. “My friends seem more than capable of corrupting themselves,” he added. The Majorcan held out his bottle, and Dani only hesitated for a moment before clinking it.
Monterey (Laguna Seca Raceway)
“What the fuck?”
Dani looked up at Jorge, who had unceremoniously barged into his motorhome. “What?”
“No, seriously, what the fuck?”
Dani elbowed his- friend, God that was still weird- in the side when the Majorcan slumped too close to him on the sofa. “I honestly have no idea what you are talking about.”
Jorge’s stare was faintly incredulous. “From sixth place, you have no idea what I might be talking about?”
Ah. “That.”
“Finally!”
“I finished 4th, remember. It’s not the best, but it’s a finish. And technically, we're still recovering.” Dani didn’t let on to any of the mental bollocking he’d already given himself, because seriously, 4th? With two satellite Hondas on the podium, he deserved every sidelong stare from the executives present today.
“At least you improved,” Jorge grumbled.
“Is this going to be a regular thing?” Dani burst out. “Don’t you have other friends to bitch with?”
“None so willing to corrupt me,” Jorge batted his eyelashes outrageously. Dani got the subtle point, and retrieved two beers from his fridge. As in Germany, he uncapped them both and passed one over. This time, there was no hesitation between them as they clinked the necks and took a good slug each.
“This is my point,” Jorge gestured at the sofa and the beer in his hand. “You aren’t fooling me, Pedrosa; you’re as pissed about this result as I am.”
“Fourth,” Dani muttered, but Jorge talked over him.
“And you let me bitch and moan, then you piss me off further, then you cheer me up by supplying me with beer.”
“That’s friendship?” Dani asked incredulously. When Jorge nodded, he wondered if the Majorcan hadn’t been at the booze already before turning up on his sofa. “You’re welcome,” he added doubtfully.
Jorge toasted the air between them. “Drink up. I refuse to be the only one grumpy and hungover tomorrow.”
Dani didn’t want to imagine the look on his manager’s face when he turned up at the garage tomorrow, possibly with alcohol still in his system if the glint in Jorge’s eyes was anything to gauge the eventual yield by.
“I may not have enough beer for this,” he said cautiously.
“And that’s where my other friends come in,” Jorge explained cheerfully. “Drink up; we’ve got at least four other motorhomes to hit before nine!”
The way Jorge said ‘four other motorhomes’ curdled something in Dani’s stomach, before he reminded himself that Jorge came to him first.
The bottle was empty five minutes later.
(Jealousy and denial were in full force tonight, and he had a premonition- he’s praying it’s wrong- that the third part of this would be drunken mistakes.
Oh, hell.)
-*-
Dani wakes up hungover, but he also wakes up alone.
(He can’t remember why this is disappointing.)
Summer 2013- Interval
The summer break had been nice, but it was nicer still to be back on track. Jorge grinned at the faces he hadn't seen for the past four weeks and ruthlessly denied he was hoping to see one in particular.
Dani's small stature came into view, and his traitorous heart skipped a beat; his steps stuttered and he was let standing still, waiting to see if the Honda rider would approach him.
Dark eyes cased the paddock in much the same way Jorge himself had been doing. He noticed when they saw him, and was pleased when Dani immediately made his way through the crush of people to him.
"Miss me?" He winked when Dani was close enough to hear him, and internally winced when it came out flirtier than he intended.
The Honda rider didn't seem to notice; he rolled his eyes and said, "Like a broken wrist at Valencia."
"You and your injuries," Jorge sighed. "So that's definitely a yes, then?"
"You and your delusions," Dani sighed in reply. "It's been strange living in reality without you."
"You did miss me," Jorge confirmed with a grin. "You can admit it, you know. People have wasted away pining for me before, all because they wouldn't just bask in my presence like they so desperately wanted to."
Dani actually looked concerned. "My God, you've gotten worse," he stage whispered.
"Or better," Jorge cheerfully disagreed. "Anyway, enough about your desperation to be with me again." (It should be noted that by this point, Jorge has given up on ignoring just how much he had missed the Honda rider, and was instead praying intently that Dani didn't notice anything deeper in his playful words.) "Yamaha doesn't need me for at least an hour; want to catch a coffee and catch up?"
Dani still had to remind himself sometimes that they were friends now, and this was what friends did with each other. He actually found himself disappointed when he had to turn down the offer.
"I'm on my way to the garage now, actually," he said, frowning slightly. "Will you be free later?"
It was Jorge's turn to frown. "It's going to be a late session," he said. "Probably won't want coffee by the time I'm done with everything."
Dani half-smiled. "It'd be nice to still have the chat though, wouldn't it?"
Yes. God yes.
"I'll text you when I'm done, then?" Jorge asked, grin restored. Then something occurred to him, and he couldn't believe they hadn't done this before.
"I don't actually have your number," he laughed sheepishly. "Want to update me?"
They were friends now, Dani remembered. "Yeah, sure." He rattled off a string of digits, Jorge typing quickly into the gadget that had materialised in his hands. Moments later, he felt his pocket vibrate and pulled his own phone out to confirm the message.
"That'd be me," Jorge stated, like there was any doubt. He put his phone away and left Dani to it. "I'll text you later then."
He waved, and knew with split-second clarity that he should shut himself up that instant.
Very much in the same way he always knew he should have broken fractions earlier going into that corner, but by the time he works that sort of thing out he's normally in the gravel.
"It's a date!"
Bugger me.
Please? His stupid, stupid mind added.
Dani stared, and it was the first inkling during the conversation that Jorge wasn't entirely joking. He let that suspicion fill his eyes, and colour his tone as he repeated, "It's a date."
Jorge gave him a tight, worried smile and was for once, very glad to walk away from the shorter man.
Dani watched him leave for a moment before refocusing his mind on the bike settings, and weaving through the crowd to the garage session he was now minutes late for.
-*-
Cal hadn't thought anything was amiss. He and Bradley were enjoying a quiet laze outside the Tech3 garage, making sure the cameras got some shots of their Monster energy drinks, when Bradley choked on his mouthful and very nearly spat it back out over the pavement.
Like any good teammate would, he thumped Bradley on the back hard enough to leave bruises.
Once the Oxfordshire lad had finished coughing up a lung, he craned his neck around to gawk at the two Spanish riders chatting brazenly in the middle of the thoroughfare.
"My God," he said dully. "I really did just hear that."
"Hear what?" Cal looked around for anything promising good gossip, then followed his teammate's gaze. "Oh. Yeah, Jorge and Pedrosa settled their differences earlier in the year.” He snorted in disbelief. “Finally buried whatever hatchet laid between them. Didn’t you notice?”
Bradley gave him a strange look. “Why should I?” He asked incredulously. “Never mind; I don’t want to know. But that-” he jerked his head over at the pair- “sounds like more than a buried hatchet to me.”
Cal listened closely before realising his problem. “I don’t speak Spanish,” he grumbled, muttering a mild curse. “Translation, now.”
Bradley gave him another look, but complied. “Jorge’s teasing Dani about- his injuries? Dani’s calling him deluded. It started as Jorge asking if Dani missed him.” Bradley was distracted by the sight of the Catalonian smiling, and fumbled the next translation. “They’re- discussing work schedules?” He turned to Cal. “Is that allowed? Fraternising with the enemy and all that?”
This needed to be said: it bemused most of the paddock that this year, the year where Jorge and Dani had the closest fight for the championship on their hands yet, was the year they decided to stop hating each other.
Bradley just managed to catch the rest of the conversation. “They’re arranging a meet tonight.” He blinked. “Is Jorge blushing?”
“What?” Both Tech 3 riders stared as Jorge blushed his way through typing something into his phone- and connected the dots in horror as Dani pulled his out moments later. Jorge chirped something in goodbye that Cal didn’t need a translation for, and abruptly left the scene.
He turned to his interpreter. “You don’t think... they don’t think they’re being subtle, do they?”
But Bradley was still looking at Dani’s face: suspicious, brooding and suddenly blank. More pieces slotted into place. “I think they might just be getting a clue themselves.”
Cal froze. Then, his hand moving mechanically, he downed the rest of his can. “I’m pretending there was vodka in it,” he explained. “Christ knows I’ll need it if I think about this any longer.”
Bradley laughed it off and said his goodbyes, loping off to his crew. Cal wished he could erase his mind, or at least reboot it, before doing the same.
-*-
Dani’s phone beeped moments before he heard a knock at his door. He didn’t check the message, justifying the action when Jorge was revealed at his doorway. The Majorcan hadn’t even put his own phone away yet.
“I gave you my number because I prefer a bit of advance warning,” Dani said lightly. He was repressing the last moments of the afternoon with every mental fibre, because Jorge walked away then and Dani will not be the one to bring it up.
Even so, he saw the obvious retort in Jorge’s eyes before the Yamaha rider quashed it almost as quickly.
You gave me your number because I asked, because I like you and because you like me too, Daniel Pedrosa, at least a little bit.
“I understand if you need to prepare yourself for my awesomeness,” Jorge replied instead, equally light. Dani hadn’t mentioned it, and Jorge silently agreed to skirt around the thing for now.
For now.
It was nice, Dani thought later on, later than he realised until he checked his watch. Just talking, laughing, and ribbing each other gratuitously at certain moments.
Ignoring the elephant in the room with them.
It was nice, just the two of them with his denial.
Indianapolis (Indianapolis Motor Speedway)
Everybody loved a podium.
It was safe to say that today, Valentino was probably enjoying it the most.
The presentation and champagne had gone off without a hitch; Jorge rolling his eyes (and yes, taller than Dani even from the second tier, the arsehole) when Dani sent him a look that dared the Majorcan to make a comment.
For the photographs, Jorge wrapped his arm around Dani’s waist tighter than he normally would. He was getting tired of not talking about it.
Dani ignored the hold, the steady warmth and his own heart beating fast.
He didn’t have a problem. No unresolved issues to speak of.
Vale looked at them with shrewd, experienced (if not in this exact sense) eyes. He took in the lack of biting, or even joking, comments, and the stiff body language of Dani and the tight, overly friendly grip of Jorge.
He wondered what could possibly be going on this season, and just how much longer it would go on for.
Silverstone (Silverstone Circuit)
They were lounging around in the Yamaha motorhome for a change. Dani told his inner five-year old girl (the one he didn’t know he had until two weeks ago) to stop squealing about what the change could possibly signal, because the vice versa meant he’d been in denial longer than he wanted to contemplate.
(Dani was denying that he was in denial. How was this his life? He knew he was panicking slightly, and forced it back down.)
He stopped fiddling with his shirtsleeves and turned to Jorge. The Majorcan was watching him with- something. Fondness? Friends could be fond of each other, right? Dani needed something to wipe that expression from Jorge’s face, before he got ideas.
"You arsehole," he ended up saying. Not his finest moment, especially since Jorge was still smiling. Dani reviewed some of their more antagonistic exchanges and- Oh God, did Jorge think it was a pet name?
Dani kept looking around the motorhome, unwilling to focus on any one thing. Jorge watched him examine his mobile home for the first time and knew his feelings were plain on his face. When the Catalonian finally turned to him, Jorge didn’t bother wiping his expression. He was tired of ignoring whatever it was growing between them.
Dani’s words said one thing, but his eyes were soft (softer than perhaps, he himself realised) so Jorge didn't take it too harshly. The little bastard liked the competition really.
"It was a fair pass," he protested for the sake of argument. This was situation normal between them, as it stood at the moment. He was tired of situation normal.
"Which is why I'm calling you an arsehole rather than something far less flattering," the Honda rider replied. "I really thought I had that race."
"If I had a cent for every time I've thought that before you come out of nowhere..." Jorge trailed off, and decided to toe the edge of the line they’d been steadfastly ignoring for the last two weeks. "All's fair in love and war, Dani."
Dani was not yet past panicking over his little, maybe, slightly there (nothing there, denied) problem, so he deflected and ignored with the power of a thousand suns. "So dramatic!" Dani gasped and curled a hand over his heart. "Why on Earth do I put up with you?"
Dani might have been over-enthusiastic in his deflection.
Jorge sighed, but acceded to the Catalonian’s wishes, and gamely parried. "You'd be bored stiff without me, don't try to deny it."
"I'd be a world champion without you," Dani groused. He was not at situation normal: he was panicking and deflecting, and this was thus a bit more honest than he intended it to be, rather than harmless banter.
Jorge stopped in his tracks, disgruntlement abruptly shelved for the moment. "It bothers you that much?"
Dani did not want to have this conversation.
Dani did not want to have that conversation either, and picked what appeared to be the lesser of two evils. It was a very close call.
"Don't lie and say it wouldn't you if our positions were reversed," He muttered. "Every week, more or less, every week I'm racing up the sharp end against you, Vale- Casey and Nicky, when they were at Honda- and yet I'm the only one who hasn't done it." Dani was grateful for the privacy they had, because he is breathing heavily by the end of his impassioned speech, close to shouting.
"Yet," Jorge said quietly, but emphatically.
"What?" Dani growled, not really wanting to hear anything Jorge had to say to him at that time.
"Hasn't done it yet," Jorge repeated, a little louder.
Dani gaped like a fish. He has nothing to say- "... Pardon?" he managed to whisper.
"Keep the faith, Dani," Jorge smiled. "You're up at the sharp end with us. You’re the little bastard I have to make sure doesn’t get a good start at every race, because God only knows then how I’m going to catch up. You’re at Repsol Honda still because they haven’t found somebody they think can better you, beat you consistently, week in, week out. You’re the only one who doubts your ability."
There was a long silence, reassuring to Jorge because he hoped it meant Dani was taking his words seriously. The marvel of it, he thought, that my words might actually have an effect on him.
There was a warm, squishy feeling in his chest. Jorge fully accepted it and the thought of what it (what Dani) was coming to mean to him.
"Thanks, Jorge," Dani said softly. To his horror, his words contained a tremble. "That means- more than you'll probably ever know to me."
"Even when things aren't going so well'" Jorge briefly remembered his rookie MotoGP season, "You keep smiling, and you keep the faith." He clapped the Honda rider on the shoulder and stood up, sensing the conversation nearing its end. Dani followed more slowly, deep in thought. "Keep smiling, Dani." Then he admitted the slightest trace of his warm, squishy feeling. "You look so much better when you smile."
For the second time that evening, Jorge left Dani looking completely poleaxed. He shut the door gently behind the Honda rider and collapsed face down on the sofa, muffling his frustrated scream with a cushion.
Dani wandered back to his motorhome, replaying those words over and over in his head. Ever so slowly, the corners of his mouth moved upwards. He let himself in and went to the mirror, watching the expression take a hold of his face.
Keep smiling.
"Thanks, Jorge," he whispered to the empty room.
Brno (Masaryk Circuit)
Dani’s heart lurched as he left the qualifying press conference and saw Jorge waiting outside.
It lurched again when Jorge bypassed him and went for his British friend. “Nice pole,” Jorge leered, waggling his eyebrows outrageously.
Cal was possibly the only bigger flirt in the paddock than Jorge. “Alas, it is already spoken for,” he replied, reaching out for Jorge’s arm and throwing his other hand over his eyes. “Will you fight for my honour?”
Jorge snorted, and shoved Cal’s arm off. “You seen Lucy lately? She slaughter me!”
Their laughter died down slowly, Jorge’s smile becoming sincere. “Serious man, congrats on your first pole.”
“Thanks, Jorge.” Cal’s grin was pure friendship, but that didn’t stop Dani ruthlessly repressing the hurt he felt when the two walked past him, still chatting.
He had no problem. It was no problem.
He had denial, sure, but no problem.
-*-
Brno was special, for some reason. The race perhaps wasn’t as close as last year, but it still sent something tingling through Dani when he beat Jorge to the line. He knew it was silly to consider it their track, but his denial was already fully occupied this weekend, and the feeling leaked through.
Pulling into parc firmé, he couldn’t stop the grin crossing his face.
Jorge was moments behind him, and he couldn’t help but reach out his hand to grab Jorge’s as the Yamaha pulled up.
Being Jorge, the Majorcan went one better and physically pulled Dani off his bike, hugging the smaller man and knocking their helmets together.
Dani laughed even as he punched Jorge on the shoulder, pushing him away. He tugged off his helmet, still laughing, to see Jorge doing the same with his own blinding smile.
Dani’s expression froze for three long seconds, until he wrenched his brain back on track.
This was Brno. It was theirs. Nothing was going to ruin him celebrating this podium.
So he shoved the feeling aside until later that night.
-*-
Later that night, Dani revisited the feeling, and, feeling stupidly brave (still riding high on winning at Brno) he loosened the reins on his long-standing denial.
A wave of admiration, longing and sheer attraction swamped him, all tied up in that smile Jorge had shot him that afternoon. He finally admitted it to himself.
Daniel Pedrosa had a problem. Oh, Hell.
(Fucking Brno.)
Misano Adriatico (Misano World Circuit Marco Simoncelli)
It was something, Dani thought, that when he’s paying attention, Jorge was nowhere to be seen. He doesn’t know if, when or how he pissed the Yamaha rider off, but they’ve been at Misano since Wednesday and he’d seen Jorge only once in passing.
So he went hunting.
The obvious place to check was the Yamaha garage; Lin Jarvis stared at him like he’d grown a second head, but answered cordially enough, though negatively, when asked if he knew where Jorge was.
And beyond that… Dani had nothing. No idea where to check, so he was reduced to wandering aimlessly for half an hour before it occurred to him to simply pull out his phone and send Jorge a text.
It was ten slow, painful minutes of pacing before he got a reply.
Westernmost corner of the track fence.
It took him twenty minutes to get to the west side of the track, ten more after that to find Jorge. The Majorcan was slumped against the fence, his back to the sunset. His silhouette curved in on itself in a manner that made Dani want to hurt something.
He planned to ask Jorge, ‘what’s wrong?’ but the Yamaha rider beat him to conversation.
“I hate this circuit.”
He swallowed his words and cast his mind back over the years, feeling fairly certain of his memory. “You’ve never been off the podium here in the top class. Hell, you’ve won here the last two years.”
Jorge shrugged. “I still hate this circuit.”
Dani sat down next to him and bumped their shoulders together. Awkwardness and issues had to be set aside; Jorge was not okay. “Why?”
“Misano World Circuit,” Jorge paused, “Marco Simoncelli.”
They both fell silent, remembering the other rider. But Dani still couldn’t see where Jorge was coming from, because the Majorcan disliked Simoncelli more than Dani himself did. Why did he still, two years on, apparently tear himself up over it?
“Why?” he asked again, praying that Jorge will answer him properly this time.
It took a while, but Jorge spoke at last, slowly, picking his words. “Everything I ever said to him- that he was dangerous, that he needed to cool it down, sometimes that he just had to stop before he seriously hurt himself and others-” he glanced at Dani, “-that was after Le Mans, by the way.”
Dani’s collarbone ached; he had good reason to dislike Simoncelli.
“I told him, just once, he needed to stop before he got himself killed. In hindsight, it seems like an omen.”
Jorge shook against him; Dani realised the Majorcan was trying desperately not to cry. He was paralysed; what was he supposed to do?
He shifted his arm up to lay it across Jorge’s shoulders, and tilted the other man over so he was leaning into his own torso. And then- Dani held him, one arm on his shoulders and the other fluttering uselessly about until Jorge grabbed it in his own and hung on like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.
“I hate this circuit,” Jorge muttered again. “Hate it, hate it, hate it!”
Dani just held him, and felt like crying himself.
-*-
Eventually, Jorge gathered himself up. Dani pretended not to notice the red eyes, and they made their way back to the hospitality area in silence.
At the Yamaha motorhome, Jorge pulled Dani in for a hug before he could make his goodbyes. “Thank you,” he whispered, the tone low and intimate. “Nobody’s ever just- listened, before.”
Dani’s grip tightened unconsciously. “You’re welcome,” he replied softly.
Jorge pulled back and stared at him seriously. “I wasn’t going to reply, at first,” he admitted. “To your text, I mean- I felt like shit- and I didn’t want you to see me like that.” He took a deep breath, and continued. “But you helped. You didn’t really say anything, but you helped.”
Then Dani took a deep breath, because what he was about to say was as close as he’d been to admitting anything between them to Jorge- or out loud, in general. “I’m glad,” he said, voice still soft. “I’m glad you replied, and I’m gladder still I could help you.”
They smiled at each other, nervous, uncertain things that didn’t know how far this was going to go. Jorge took the step, leaning forward and kissing Dani just once, a dry peck on the lips. But his hand was on Dani’s neck, and it lingered there long after.
“Thank you,” he whispered again, stroking Dani’s pulse as he moved away. He opened his door and was nearly inside before Dani managed to reply.
“You’re welcome,” he simply repeated.
The warmth of Jorge’s words lingered long after that of the physical touches.
Alcañiz (Cuidad del Motor de Aragon)
Dani’s only five laps into the race- and what a race it was shaping up to be- when he has the panic moment- the gentlest touch to Jorge’ bike, one that nearly sends him careening into the gravel trap. He grits his teeth and locks his joints, forcing the bike to move where he wants it to go.
It works, after a fashion. He can’t muster any further challenge to Jorge, but even in these early days there’s enough distance between them and third (his pit board confirms it when he next goes down the home straight, not quite at full power because he’s not got full confidence back in his bike yet)- fifteen seconds, which is enough for him to take stock for a couple of laps and find out (he hopes) that everything is still in working order.
Everything is not still in working order. There is an indicator flashing on his screen; one of his sensors is working erratically, which takes away from his corner speed. Sixteen laps is suddenly a long way to go, and he nurses the bike back for every one of them.
He can’t help but feel aggrieved when Vale overtakes him half a lap from the finish, but he’s more glad that Alvaro Bautista didn’t sneak through too.
-*-
The more-or-less thirty seconds, this weekend, entail Jorge striding up to Dani and then visibly restraining himself.
“Are you okay?” He asked instead, the words bursting out of him. “We touched- and then you dropped away completely.”
Vale looks helplessly confused by the question. Dani isn’t faring much better, but has got in a lot of practice this season deflecting unwelcome things.
“You broke my bike, arsehole,” he replies, half-smiling to take the sting out of his words. “I had to nurse her home.”
Jorge blinks, and Dani realises what he has just inadvertently revealed. “Her?” Jorge questions, beginning to smirk. “Does she have a name, Dani?”
God damn it, he knows he’s blushing. He glances to the side, but avoiding eye contact is not going to save his pride here.
“No,” he mutters.
Jorge’s laughing now. Arsehole, Dani thinks, not really surprised by the fondess the word now carries.
“Don’t be shy, now! Tell us all about your leading lady.”
And Dani knows for once, that he can be the one on the front foot. He looks straight up to meet Jorge’s eyes. “She’s the only girl for me,” he says with heavy emphasis.
The Majorcan chokes on nothing, breaking into a coughing fit.
All through the podium, he keeps glancing to his left side. Dani ignores every single one of them with a satisfied grin.
-*-
The text comes through late; he’s just about to go to bed.
You look adorable when you blush.
He doesn’t have to guess at the sender.
He rolls his eyes, because really, Jorge?
Because that’s what every man wants to hear. He thumps the send button and wonders how (not if) Jorge will reply to that one.
He gets his answer two minutes later.
It’s a subjective thing, I know. But I think it’s the truth.
Dani sighs, charmed despite himself, and throws the poor man a bone. I like your smile.
That’s all I wanted to hear. Sleep well, Dani.
Night, Jorge.
Sepang (Sepang International Circuit)
In an all-too familiar sight, Jorge’s view down into the first corner of the track is suddenly obscured by an orange Honda.
The little bastard can qualify a row behind him and still be ahead of him into the first turn.
Rather than immediately contest the position, he ducks in behind Dani and uses the Honda’s greater power to tow him up to Cal and Vale. In a straight line, the Yamahas are no match, and Malaysia has those two beautiful straights separated by a chicane. It is very much a Honda track.
Jorge realises his error slightly too late, because while Dani slipstreams his team mate and friend with ease, he has to work much harder and finally dives up Vale’s inside when the Italian goes wide. By this point, the Honda is a good few seconds ahead, and Jorge is still not overly certain of this track after last year’s sodden and stopped race. He pushes, but the tenths add up.
By the time they cross the line, Dani is nine seconds ahead, and Jorge is mostly proud he kept it in single digits. He’s also worried, because this victory has set back the whittling down he was doing of Dani’s championship lead. It’s not like Dani could crash and still be ahead at the end of the race, but-
Well. He only needs to win by one point. That is, after all, the definition of winning. But with only three rounds to go, everything is still very much in the air.
-*-
Jorge knows exactly who’s knocking on his door. Dani might be less obvious than him (Aragon springs to mind) but he always notices, and always checks.
It makes him feel warm inside.
“Hey,” the shorter man smiles at him. “You seemed a bit quiet, earlier.”
Jorge waves him in and slouches down next to the Honda rider. “Deep in thought,” he offers in explanation.
Dani nods, and hesitates. “Want to… talk?”
“Not really,” Jorge laughs it off. “Just weighing up the championship standings.”
Dani frowns, now. “Oh.”
“Hey!” Jorge swipes a thumb over Dani’s furrowed brow. “None of that now- you’re winning.”
His hand is batted away. “And you’re pushing me every step of the way,” Dani replies. Jorge smiles at the honest competition between them, and smiles more when Dani blushes slightly. He knows the Honda rider is thinking of the last texts they exchanged.
But then Dani leans forward. His hand covers Jorge’s cheek. Jorge’s eyes go wide, and he stares as Dani bites his lip before speaking.
“Stop me if I’m being presumptuous,” Dani says quietly, “But I want this- I want you. And I think you want me too.”
Jorge leans in that last inch and kisses him.
By the time they get to the bed, Dani is shirtless and Jorge down to his boxers. He pushes lightly at Dani’s shoulders, amazed when the older man lets himself fall back onto the mattress. He sets one knee on the edge and takes a moment to admire the view.
Skin flushed, chest moving with quick breaths, pupils blown wide open in dazed eyes. Dani’s lips are swollen. Jorge crawls onto the bed properly to bruise them some more.
He props himself up on one elbow by Dani’s head, and his other hand fumbles with the buttons on his jeans. It takes him longer than it should to get them open, but he justifies it with the plateau of distractions laid out before him. Dani raises his hips, and Jorge shoves the denim down until Dani can kick them off. Then Dani raises his hips again, and they both groan at the contact, skin only separated by underwear.
Dani’s hands are everywhere- stroking his shoulders, his chest, his hips- his focus narrows down when Dani lightly lays one on his crotch. He strokes there too, harder as he grows in confidence, making Jorge feel it through the cloth barrier. Jorge gasps against his neck, then licks it, then bites down, suckling at the skin.
His- lover, now- tenses underneath him. All movement stops. Jorge sits up, and Dani is watching him warily, alert now where he was loose and open before.
“You don’t like a bit of pain?” Jorge asks quietly; it could be a serious issue.
Dani’s hands are at his sides now, and Jorge would give a lot to have them on him again. “I don’t like lasting marks,” Dani answers slowly, eyes wondering if this would be okay.
Jorge smiles, and kisses him again. “I can work with that,” he murmurs against Dani’s lips.
In response, Dani’s tongue darts out to trace Jorge’s smile, to learn the shape of his teeth and the taste in his mouth. “Don’t be gentle,” he pants when the kiss breaks, “I’m not that fragile.”
Dani has a lot of scars, even compared to another motorcycle racer, but Jorge will point this out some other time, when Dani’s hands are not sliding his boxers down and finally, finally, closing a hand around his cock.
“What do you like?” Dani wonders as he starts moving his hand, up and down, and twisting.
Jorge is not sure how Dani can still form coherent sentences. “You,” he gasps thoughtlessly, and Dani huffs a laugh.
“Flattering. Then how do you want me?”
If Jorge could preserve one memory for the rest of his life, it would be that moment- Dani Pedrosa, in his bed, brazenly asking what Jorge wanted to do to him. He has a beautiful image in his mind, and hopes Dani will also like the sound of it.
"Ride me," Jorge manages, flushing hot at the mere thought of it. But Dani's reaction-
His blush starts on his face, but spreads down his neck to the top of his chest. Jorge traces the path of that blush with a single finger and watches Dani shiver, then nod.
"Alright," he rasps out. "Yeah, alright."
They discard their boxers fully as the shift around, Dani now straddling Jorge. Dani grinds down as Jorge rocks up, the contact blissfully just shy of true pain. Dani leans down and whispers, "Condoms? Lube?" and Jorge mutters "Nightstand," and thinks holy shit this is really happening.
Dani slicks up his own fingers and reaches behind himself, all while keeping his balance and rocking motion going. It is a feat of agility that has Jorge stunned and more turned on than he ever remembers being before, and from Dani's smug grin, he thinks the older man can tell.
"You," he manages, "Just- Christ Dani, you."
Dani would smirk, but he's found his prostate and is too busy gasping and pushing back on his own fingers.
When he thinks he's ready, he tears open the small foil packet and fits the condom over Jorge, slicking him with his still greasy hand. He keeps his hold as he kneels up, then sinks slowly down, down until Jorge's bottomed out and Dani's trembling from the stretch and the fullness, the brilliant feeling of having somebody inside him.
Jorge gives him a minute, then a shallow, questioning thrust. Dani takes the hint-
-and leaves the obvious metaphor, because even at a time like this, his mind-
-and Dani rides.
Jorge places his hands on Dani's hips, but there is no control on his part. He starts thrusting gently in counterpoint, then with more force as Dani's voice breaks on a moan.
"There, God, Jorge, Jorge-"
Bitten by an idea, Jorge uses one of his hands to stroke Dani's neglected cock. He gets another broken moan in reward.
Dani's pushing from pleasure to pleasure- Jorge's cock in him, rubbing up against his prostate, and Jorge's hand around him, stroking him in time. He feels the orgasm build almost too quickly; he wants this feeling to last forever.
When Dani comes, he moans Jorge's name though quietly, like a prayer. He catches himself on his arms as his muscles flutter and squeeze his still-hard lover. Jorge only manages a few more thrusts before coming with a groan of his own.
"Dani," Jorge murmurs, craning his neck for a kiss.
Dani kisses him when his breathing is still too fast and recovering, kisses him until he knows every corner of Jorge's mouth, kisses him until black spots threaten his vision and he must pull away, eyes wide and dazed.
Jorge is doing little better. He takes care of the practical concerns- disposes of the condom, grabs a washcloth and cleans the worst of the evidence off- then collapses back next to Dani, limbs unwilling to cooperate for any length of time.
He murmurs the other man's name again, openly admiring him.
"Dani."
Dani doesn't open his eyes, but he rolls towards the sound and ends up snuggled into Jorge's collarbone.
"Jorge," he mumbles, on the cusp of sleep.
He might be running high on the cocktail of hormones really good sex releases, but he suddenly thinks it would be very easy to love this man in his arms.
Jorge isn't there (...yet), he knows. But he could, and he thinks it would be easy.
-*-
Dani is woken up by rustling sounds and a drop in temperature down his left side. He blinks blearily and eventually focuses on Jorge walking back over to the bed.
“I tried not to wake you,” Jorge says. “You looked peaceful.”
Dani blinks in reply, because urgh, mornings. When he finally processes the words, he scowls and buries his head back in the pillow. “Well done,” he mutters.
He hears Jorge snort. “Now you’re just cute.” He makes the observation intending it to wound. Sure enough, Dani raises his head enough to glare blearily at him.
“Coffee’s going,” Jorge ruffles the older man’s hair. “Bathroom’s at the back if you wanted to clean up.” He leaves the Honda rider to it and turns back to the living space, the best semblance of privacy he can give.
Dani pulls together the willpower to get up, gingerly cataloguing his body’s report. There’s no ache or pain, more an awareness that certain muscles were unusually and exuberantly exercised last night, and are now in a state of recovery.
He shivers at the memory, picks up his clothes and makes a hasty retreat to the bathroom.
Ablutions complete, he returns to the living space to find the promised coffee on the countertop. Dani falls upon it like a starving man at a feast, taking a reverent sip then turning to Jorge. “Do you have sugar?” He asks, even just one tiny infusion making him feel a lot more human.
Jorge tries to think back. “You don’t take sugar?” he questions, fairly certain he’s right.
Dani smiles sheepishly. “Only in the mornings. I need the extra kick.”
“Huh. Cupboard to your left.” That information is very carefully logged in Jorge’s memory, because he wants there to be more mornings like this. Lots more mornings.
Dani has turned right, and Jorge grins. “Your other left.”
His smile is even more sheepish. “Mornings,” Dani says as explanation.
It isn’t awkward, Jorge is relieved (and surprised) to note. They drink their first coffees mostly in silence, but when Jorge brings out the toaster, Dani commences to take the piss out of his stone-age appliance.
“It works just fine!” Jorge insists, backed up by the popping of the toast being done. “See? Toast!”
Dani picks up the proffered bread. It is warm, and a light golden colour. “This is warm bread,” he concludes.
“If you don’t like it…” Jorge starts, but it has the opposite effect when Dani starts laughing at him. “What?” he demands irritably.
“You sound like my mother,” Dani laughs again.
Jorge’s complexion has gone slightly green, and he stares mournfully at his toast. “I’m not sure I’m hungry anymore,” he states.
Dani cocks his head.
“Given the context, and your comparison? Yeah, not eating at the moment.”
A few seconds later, Dani pushes his plate away too.
“Thanks, arsehole.”
The first sign of discord creeps in as Dani gets ready to leave. He keeps checking his watch nervously, then glancing at the window.
Jorge tires of this quickly. “What’s wrong?”
Dani grins, but it’s strained. “It’s late. People are already moving about.”
Jorge knows he’s missing the point here. “So?”
Dani’s hands twitch. “What if they ask me what I’m doing here? What am I meant to say?”
“What?” Jorge still can’t see the problem here. “You tell them to mind their own bloody business.”
His lover rolls his eyes. “Because that will work.”
Admittedly, it’s not an answer Jorge would ever accept. But then it clicks, and he stares at Dani, slightly shocked. “You want to hide this?”
Now Dani looks shocked. “You don’t?”
Oh, Jorge thinks, as he sits down heavily with reality crashing in, shit.
He runs a hand over his head, then looks up. “I wasn’t exactly going to broadcast it,” he says slowly. “But neither was I going to treat it like a dirty secret.”
Dani winces. Good, Jorge thinks viciously. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he says almost angrily, “And you were no blushing virgin last night, Dani Pedrosa, so that can’t be it. Why do you want to hide?”
Unless it’s me he’s ashamed of, he thinks suddenly. It makes him angrier. “You said you wanted this, wanted me,” he bit out. “But you only want me when nobody else is looking? What is that meant to tell me, Dani?”
“I thought you’d be sensible about it!” Dani shoots back. It hits Jorge like a bucket of iced water. “I figured you’d see it the same way! We can’t be seen together; the press would never leave us alone again!”
“I thought you wanted this!” Jorge rephrases himself. “How can you want someone you’re clearly so ashamed of?”
“I want you,” Dani says it so quickly, it can’t be a lie. He spoils it by continuing, “But I also want my private life to be just that, private. Why can’t you-”
“Why can’t I understand that?” Jorge is incredulous. “I know you put on more of an act than most, but- what would it be? Meeting in secret, making excuses and sneaking around at night, lying to everyone about what we’re doing and where we’re going? I won’t live like that!”
“I thought you wanted me too,” Dani says quietly, all traces of anger gone. When Jorge looks, really looks at him, he notices the man’s hands are trembling.
“I do,” he says simply. “And I don’t care if the world knows it too.”
Dani looks at him sadly. “I think that’s incredibly naïve,” he says.
Jorge shakes his head, equally sad. “I’m not so sure I care what you think either, right now.”
“So that’s it?” Dani can’t believe he’s hearing this.
“I won’t change my mind,” Jorge is resolute. He wants Dani, wants to apologise and hug him and make him smile and blush again, but he wants to do that in public when he feels like it- not just in snatched moments when other people aren’t around.
“I won’t risk our careers.” Dani bitterly thinks that Jorge never has to worry about this; he is already a double world champion. Any team would welcome him with open arms if he showed the inclination.
Including Honda. Dani has no such security blanket to fall back on.
“So that’s it,” Jorge confirms. He’s snide to cover how much it hurts that Dani doesn’t think he’s worth it. “You know where the door is.”
But it’s the window Dani looks out of before he leaves, almost like he’s making a point.
Dani can cover, too.
Phillip Island (Phillip Island Grand Prix Circuit)
Vale doesn’t get it. It’s the usual suspects on the podium with him, and it’s like stepping back in time a couple of years.
Jorge is surly and scowling at everyone, but mostly at Dani. Dani’s face is carefully blank, and he is politely ignoring everything the Majorcan does.
“Thought you were friends,” Vale muttered to his team mate under the guise of spraying him with champagne.
Close up, Jorge looks- tired. Phillip Island is a long race, but he shouldn’t have bags under his eyes because of it.
Jorge snorts bitterly and takes a long slug from his own bottle. “Like us in 2010,” he says, bitterness in every word.
But Vale knows that isn’t it; he and Jorge might have had a falling out (of epic proportions, okay, fair enough), but this thing between the two Spaniards- the careful distance, like they’re afraid to touch each other…
Vale works it out as he takes a sip of his own champagne, and nearly spits it back out. He puts an arm around Jorge’s shoulders to make sure no one else hears what he’s about to say, just in case he’s wrong.
“We never fuck after our arguments.”
Jorge doesn’t try to deny it. His smile is rueful as he mutters back, “The argument came after the fucking, actually.”
Vale raises his eyebrows, and goes on a hunch. “You don’t care I guessed? No threat of silence or blackmail to keep ride?”
“What is it with having to keep it a secret?” Jorge hisses, and Vale knows he is right. “Do you actually care that I slept with another man, or that he was another rider?”
There is the slightest thread of insecurity beneath the words, something along the lines of please don’t prove him right. Vale is slightly ashamed that, if he’d discovered this in 2010, he might well have spread the information in the most damaging way possible.
Three years on, he claps his younger team mate on the shoulder and shrugs. “Live, let live?” he offers.
Jorge’s smile becomes real, if sad. “It’s academic now, anyway. But, thanks. You’re still sort of a prick, though. When did you work it out?”
“You’re still cocky shit,” Vale points out, “And there’s something all season, but I only work it out today, seeing you two afraid to touch each other.”
The Majorcan snorts. “Yeah, wanting each other isn’t the problem. But how did Dani put it? He wants-”
“I not care one way or other,” Vale cuts in quickly, “But I’m not relationship counsellor.”
Jorge jumps almost guiltily, then nods. “You’d be terrible at it anyway,” he decides.
“Probably,” Vale agrees, grateful that is the end of it.
Motegi (Twin Ring Motegi)
Phillip Island had been painful. Seeing Jorge so distant from him- it’s hard to imagine that as little as eighteen months ago, that was fairly normal.
His lead in the championship has also been cut to two points. Australia this year had basically been shitty all around.
(He doesn’t want to admit that he can sort of, maybe see Jorge’s point. Because if the way they were on the Australian podium was anything like it would be were they keeping a massive secret from the rest of the world-
He isn’t sure he could live like that, either.)
His team are buzzing enthusiastically in Japan, keeping spirits high, pointing out that Motegi is one of his best tracks, that they can’t remember the last time he wasn’t on the podium (or injured), that it’s practically in Honda’s back yard…
Nobody reacts positively when Dani points out that Yamaha is a Japanese corporation too. Livio frowns at him, and Dani has a stupid, stupid idea.
“Actually, can I have a word?” He asks his team manager quietly. “In private- it’s a personal issue.”
Livio takes one look at his face and frowns more heavily. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”
“Probably not,” Dani admits, swallowing down his fear.
He waves the rider into his office and shuts the door. “What is it?”
Dani fidgets. He didn’t really get this far with his stupid plan. “Hypothetically speaking- and this is a hypothetical scenario- I have a male partner.” It takes every shred of bravery he possesses to meet Livio’s eyes and clarify, “A male lover.”
Livio’s knuckles go white as he clenches his fists.
“And I wondered as to the potential backlash if we stopped caring to keep it a secret. It wouldn’t be broadcast live for everyone to see, but say- we wouldn’t stop holding hands if somebody else was walking towards us.”
There is a long, tense silence, until LIvio sighs and hangs his head. “Christ, Dani,” he mutters. “All your years and you’ve never had a personal issue before, then- then this.”
Dani feels the blood leave his face, and wonders if he is about to faint.
Livio must see the rising panic, because he grabs his rider’s shoulders to steady him. “It’s complicated, but not unmanageable, okay? The bottom line- and I can say this with complete authority here and now- is that Honda couldn’t fire you from your current contract if you came out. They can’t afford to be seen as that company in the current global climate.”
This isn’t calming Dani down. Livio winces, but carries on. “It’s harsh, but it’s true. If they fired you shortly after you stopped hiding a gay lover, it wouldn’t matter what spin they put on it. Fans worldwide would see them as intolerant, and the decline in popularity and sales is not something they will risk because they might disagree with your personal choices.
“There is nothing in your contract that states you have to be heterosexual. Possibly because they didn’t see it as likely to come up, but-”
“You’ve said nothing about how you feel on any of this,” Dani cut in harshly. “I’ve got the bottom line for the company- I’m safe for one more season, and might then not be re-hired. But what about you? What about the rest of the team?”
“I can’t speak for them,” Livio replies honestly. “I don’t give a flying monkey’s who your partner is, Dani, as long as your racing remains exemplary and improves, even. You keep your focus when it’s needed, and I give no monkeys.”
Dani half-grins, feeling despair in the pit of his stomach. If Jorge had been right- he is the biggest bastard to have ever graced the MotoGP paddock.
“Don’t-” Livio knows this bit will be the most awkward to say. “There will be people that stop liking you, and stop supporting you. You don’t have to worry about sponsorship- Repsol have little say in who the riders are, and they wouldn’t pitch a hissy fit over one of them when this partnership has brought so much revenue in for them. But fans- especially Catholic fans-”
Spanish fans, Dani reads between the lines-
“Some of them might react badly. Some might call you an abomination, aberrant, sinful, shameless, and more besides. But if you really think you’re able to do this- to publically be with another man in an international sport- you will gain so many more. That I promise you. It will not all be bad.”
“It’s hypothetical,” Dani reminds his manager, rolling his eyes.
Livio gives him a look, shrewd and sly. “So Jorge doesn’t know we’re having this conversation?” He asks out of nowhere, as Dani coughs so hard tears come to his eyes.
“What?” He rasps.
Now Livio rolls his eyes. “Your paperwork says you live alone. Your movements, outside of holidays, are accounted for by the company. You didn’t bring this issue to me years ago. Ergo, what changed this year?” Livio mocks every cartoon drawing to ever depict a light-bulb event. “Are Dani Pedrosa and Jorge Lorenzo friends now? What sorcery is this?”
Dani opens his mouth, and closes it again. He really has nothing to say to this.
“Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?” Livio checks. Dani shakes his head, still dumbstruck. “Good. Then get back out there and start focussing on your data.”
But as Dani turns, Livio has one more thing to say. “Dani- you’re leading the championship going into the penultimate race of the year. You already know what to do to make sure Honda want to keep you beyond 2014, even if it is despite themselves.”
Dani smiles, properly this time, in gratitude, as he closes the door gently behind him.
-*-
He doesn’t really know what to say, so he keeps his text simple and to the point.
I’m sorry.
Moments later, his phone starts ringing. It’s Jorge. With butterflies that are more like elephants in his stomach, Dani answers.
“Jorge-”
“You don’t get to say that. You said you wouldn’t risk it, and the word ‘sorry’ by its definition means ‘I won’t do it again’, so you don’t get to say it.”
Jorge is still very angry.
Heart in his mouth, Dani whispers, “What if- I’m not ready now, but what if some day, I was- I would? Would you forgive me then?” He hears Jorge’s breath catch on the other end of the line.
Jorge is painfully honest in his reply. “If I still wanted you- yes, I would.”
If. If.
Dani knows he can’t afford to wait too long.
“I’ll try,” he says, “I’m trying.” He doesn’t mention his conversation with Livio, the fact that his manager knows, had guessed, because the mixed signals would be too difficult to explain.
“Try harder,” Jorge bites out, and hangs up.
-*-
Dani spends every one of his off track hours- the ones not spent pouring over data, because Livio is right, he knows exactly what he needs to do- trying to change his mindset on his privacy issues. Tries to make himself believe that for every person who will hate him, shun him, there will be two who don’t care, or like him even more for standing up for this potential relationship.
The easiest part is convincing himself that Jorge is worth it. Because- he couldn’t stand the man when they first met. He didn’t like Jorge for years (never hated him, but still didn’t like him). And then- Dani grew up, and Jorge did too. They are no longer rookies with chips on their shoulders and points to prove; they are confident in their abilities, and Jorge is confident in himself.
Dani is confident in his abilities, but he wouldn’t put up such a façade in public if he wasn’t at least a little frightened over what they might see in him.
Jorge doesn’t scare him. Jorge makes him feel a lot of things, especially now, but fear isn’t one of them.
So, yeah, Jorge is worth it.
Dani goes into the Motegi race knowing exactly he has to do. It’s one of his favourite tracks, after all.
Then Jorge wins, and he takes the lead in the championship.
And Dani’s mind starts to retreat again.
-*-
“Jorge!” Dani bangs on the door again. “Jorge, you arsehole, I know you’re in there.” He’s forced himself here, ignored every casual glance and inquiring look he’s garnered on the way, and he will not let Jorge make it all for nothing.
There’s an answering tap on the other side of the door. “Do you?” Jorge asks through the metal, clearly amused.
“Are you going to do this through the door?” Surely not? Dani stops himself from looking around furtively; he is trying. God, is he trying.
“Probably not; somebody might walk by,” Jorge says loftily. “I expect any conversation would be cut short when you run away.”
Dani takes a deep breath, and leans forward until his forehead is resting on the cool metal. “Not today,” he ground out between clenched teeth.
“Alright then,” Jorge sounds unaffected by the words. Dani struggles with conflicting desires; he wants Jorge to open the door, and he’s not sure if that’s because he wants to kiss him- or punch him.
He’s trying. That leaves some room for failure, okay?
“Was there something you wanted to say?” Jorge prompts, when Dani lapses into silence.
“I talked to Livio about it,” is what comes out, Dani cursing furiously in his mind because that was not what he wanted to say. “He laid out some of the realistic repercussions for me.”
His mouth is now, apparently, entirely separated from his mind.
“You did what?” Jorge yanks the door open, and Dani just about catches his balance before pitching head first into him.
Dani meets his eyes, and puts it plainly. “Livio knows. He doesn’t care. And,” he takes in a deep breath, “I was wrong.”
Jorge snorts. “That last bit hurt the most to say, I bet.”
“I was wrong, Jorge,” Dani doesn’t want to get angry. Jorge is making it difficult not to. “I’m not saying I’m ready for candid shots and every sports channel in the world knowing, but-” he finally manages to say what he meant to when he came here- “But this past fortnight- I’ve missed you. I miss just sitting around and laughing with you, if nothing else, and I was here late enough some nights doing that, so why didn’t I think people might draw conclusions I didn’t want them to then?
“It’s because I didn’t care until I might have to lie to deny it- deny you. You’re right, to not want to live like that. Subconsciously, I knew that. But maybe-” Dani rubs the bridge of his nose, “Maybe I’ve taken too much of the façade for myself. We wouldn’t be newsworthy forever, and well- I want to see if you could be worth it.”
Jorge tries to look unaffected still, but Dani can see his eyes have softened. The angry lines surrounding them are gone. “You make a pretty speech, Pedrosa,” Jorge drawls, then he tilts his head inside to where Dani knows the fridge is. “You must be thirsty after so many words.”
Dani’s smile is so wide, his cheeks start to hurt. Eventually, as he steps inside, Jorge starts smiling back.
Dani has missed that smile.
It’s not completely okay, but it is very much like Indianapolis, when they are joking and smiling and both are ignoring the elephant in the room with them. Friends, with that terrible, panic-inducing, wonderful, unresolved tension between them.
Valencia (Circuit Ricardo Tormo)
Dani’s mind is blank as he pulls into parc firme. There is nothing in his mind except-
-except-
-there is nothing-
-I’ve finally done it. Only took me eight seasons. I’m a MotoGP World Champion-
-nothing except-
-I won.
Not normally one for elaborate displays, Dani has no such cares this day, and after removing his helmet, takes a running leap for the barrier and jumps into the arms of his team. There’s bouncing and shaking and shouting and crying, even- they’re all as happy as he is. He’s laughing and maybe crying a bit too, because he can scarcely believe it, and though he knows he did nothing wrong during the race he’s waiting for a steward to come over and disqualify his victory because it doesn’t feel real.
Second and third pull in their bikes behind him, and with the way Dani feels at this moment, he finally thinks, this is it. He’s riding on a cloud of adrenaline and euphoria. No matter the backlash of his actions, Dani knows nothing is going to spoil this day, and he wonders for the final time if it’s worth it.
Wonders if he honestly wants to be hounded for a relationship with a man he barely tolerated before the start of this season.
His rational mind (very quietly, what with echoes of I won, I won! still repeating in there) points out that being hounded is no pressure for them to actually stay together if they really can’t live with each other.
Besides which- that last niggling doubt he had- he and Jorge are equals now. Dani is- they are both World Champions in their own right. He has finally given Honda back for what they have given him over the years, and if Livio is right, it should be enough that nothing else matters.
It might be petty, but Dani’s never pretended to be a paragon of virtue.
So while Jorge and his crew secure the bike and he takes off his gear, Dani disentangles himself from his team and waits for them to meet gazes. Jorge doesn’t disappoint, and gives Dani a rueful but sincere smile in congratulations.
Dani smiles back, the expression honest and happy, then he runs the few steps between them and jumps (and prays Jorge will catch him because this will look so bloody stupid if he doesn’t) and Jorge catches him with the smallest stumble, quickly righting himself against his bike. The Majorcan looks confused, until Dani closes his eyes and presses their lips together.
There’s a brief second when Dani realises that although caught, he might yet be dropped, but then Jorge’s responding and their kiss is hunger and congratulations and gratitude and-
-Dani’s mind shuts off again.
-*-
Parc firme is remarkably quiet.
Not so remarkably, perhaps. The new World Champion has assaulted the previous, not that Jorge Lorenzo appears to have a problem with this. Already sky-high eyebrows climb further when Jorge leans back into his bike’s support; the added stability gives him the leverage to hitch Dani up further-
-Dani responds eagerly, in the spirit of journalistic accuracy-
-and Valentino Rossi, the as-till-now unmentioned third place, steps up behind them and takes great pleasure in slapping them both upside the head.
-*-
Dani can’t stop smiling- he has, after all, just won the world championship.
Dani also can’t stop blushing- he has, after all, just outed himself and his (rival? Boyfriend? Whatever.) partner on live, international television.
Livio is going to have a cow. And kittens. And an almighty shout at me after I told him I wouldn’t broadcast it live for everyone to see.
The slaps (Dani was slighty grateful, in all honesty) had knocked their foreheads together, breaking the kiss. Jorge had slowly released him, breathing heavily. The Majorcan was giving him the dark-eyed look Dani remembered well from their night together; he wanted to see it again, as soon as possible.
It wasn’t impossible- merely inadvisable- to explore that look in front of the aforementioned live, international television.
“If this is just a racing high,” Jorge rasped out, voice hoarse, “I might have to kill you.”
Dani was unable to resist stretching up for one last kiss, quick but firm pressure instead of the near carnal exchange he’d first initiated. “It’s not,” he promised simply.
Jorge’s hands tightened at his waist, threatening bruises Dani desperately wants him to leave later. “Then I forgive you,” he says softly, for Dani’s ears alone. Dani flushes hot-
Dani steps back but takes Jorge’s hand. His smile, Jorge thinks, could light up a city.
(He is so incredibly gone over this man it makes him cringe; he has a mental folder of thoughts he will never say even as he can’t stop thinking them.
When Dani asked him if he’d forgive him, it was an academic question. Dani can’t go back after today; Jorge would forgive him almost anything right now.)
His hand is squeezed once, twice, but they can both see Vale lining up to hit them again (with far too much glee on his face) so Dani reluctantly pulls away, back to his team. Amusingly enough, he has to prompt the first scheduled interviewer to start his questions.
Their professional integrity does them credit, Jorge realises, because most of the questions directed even at him focus on the race and Dani’s championship (he smiles as he thinks it again, because although it could have been his, Dani raced better on the day so Jorge couldn’t begrudge him it at all, and it clearly meant the world to his lover), rather than their embrace over his bike.
Dani on Jorge’s bike (not a euphemism, more… a setting) is something that Jorge will embellish on in his mental folder at a later date.
His favourite reporter (the bold one) lives up to her anecdote, and is the only one to breach the elephant now in the open.
“And finally- was it planned?” her grin splits her face in two. “Did you agree that whoever won got to jump the other?”
Jorge laughs- how can he not? “No,” he admits shortly. There is not enough time in these interviews to even scratch the surface of that story. “But- it was a brilliant way to end the race.” They match conspiratorial smirks, and he knows (she knows he knows) what her next question is going to be.
“Will you be making it a regular celebration?” she had a wicked look in her eyes.
Jorge’s tongue gets the better of his brain as he answers recklessly, “God, I hope so,” and Dani will laugh and call him a lovestruck fool if he sees this at a later date-
The reporter is wrapping up “- but today is all about Dani Pedrosa- his World Championship dream finally realised-”
Jorge looks at the man in question, and knows with certainty that Dani heard his comment from across the pavement, and is laughing at him already.
Something in his eyes, though- the eyes that looked wide and dazed when he’d pulled back from their kiss earlier, that he wanted to see again soon- said that the laughter was fond, the feeling reciprocated.
Maybe Dani is every bit as gone over him, too.
It’s a beautiful thought to put into his folder.
Winter 2013- Epilogue
“Wake up.”
Jorge resists the order.
“Wake up, arsehole.”
There is still no incentive to be had, so Jorge stubbornly fakes sleep a little longer.
Dani is nowhere near clichéd enough to say, ‘I’ll make it worth your while’, so Jorge doesn’t ask ‘What’s in it for me?’
He waits, he listens for Dani’s annoyed huff, pinpoints just where his lover is sitting, and then he rolls over and traps the man in bed with him.
“Much better,” he mumbles. “Why so early, Dani?”
Dani is less of a morning person than Jorge, so him being the first one up is unusual enough as to be, so far with them together, unique.
“Press conference,” Dani says, with the air of one who has said this many times already and haven’t you listened to a word I’ve been saying for the past three days, Jorge?
(The only words Jorge tends to listen to are harder; faster; more power and watch the tyres. In the bedroom, the only difference is the bit about the tyres.)
Still, the words do dredge up something in his memory. “Honda are putting the second bike out again, aren’t they?”
“They’re bringing up Marquez to be my teammate.”
Jorge casts out his mind and comes up mostly blank, one small detail. “The double Moto2 champion? Cute. Two world champions in the same team.”
“Yeah,” Dani agrees, but there’s something in his voice-
Jorge sits up and looks seriously at his lover. “Are you worried about this?”
Dani looks at his hands. “He’s quick. Really quick.”
Jorge remains unimpressed. “He’s a- well, I can’t say pint sized, because that’s clearly you, but you get my point- kid on a very good and very fast bike. What are you expecting?” He doesn’t really take Dani’s complaints seriously, because after the debacle that was him and Vale in the 2009-10 seasons, nobody else’s teammate can possibly be that bad.
His lover gives him a tight grin before rising to get ready for the conference. Jorge realises something.
“Oi, why did you wake me up?”
Dani’s grin is fuller, now. “Misery loves company.”
Jorge rolls over and groans into his pillow.
Jorge replays the words in his head, and has a truly evil idea.
Jorge re-raises his head, and smiles sweetly back at Dani. “I love you too, baby,” he croons.
Dani freezes in place like a deer in the headlight. Jorge wonders if he’s broken the Honda rider.
The Yamaha man waits, because Dani can probably see that beneath the sickly-sweet tone and bullshit nickname, the words are honest.
“Huh,” Dani finally says.
Jorge tenses up. He hadn’t expected such a non-reaction. “What does that mean?”
“Do I need to repeat myself? I didn’t think you were that insecure, honey.” Dani smiles back at him. “But I really need to get to this press conference now, so I’ll leave you to plot some grandiose affair in celebration of this milestone that I’ll undoubtedly hate while I make nice with the kid I’m riding with next year.”
“You know I’ll take that as a challenge, right?” Jorge asks.
Dani grins. “Self-preservation,” he replies, and Jorge realises, bugger, he’s right. Jorge’s going to make sure Dani likes whatever he cooks up to celebrate them saying it to each other (Dani knows Jorge will want to celebrate something like that because he is an unbelievable sap when the cameras are off), and so most of his outrageous ideas are out off the bat.
He’ll think of something simple to wind his lover up, then make it up to him.
Everybody wins.
Jorge smiles.
2014 Epilogue (the couldn’t resist it coda)
Qatar
Jorge saunters into the Honda garage and ignores the flurry of mechanics trying to hide their data. He focuses on his lover, sitting in the back, and grins. He might be sleeping on the couch for this, but it will be worth every second.
“So, winner tops tonight?”
There is a hushed silence. Presumably everybody (Jorge included) is waiting for Dani to blush or lose his temper, both of which are the usual reactions to the things Jorge can come out with.
Dani stands up and takes three steps until he’s chest to chest with Jorge.
What everyone else has forgotten, he notes, vaguely annoyed, is that he’s been putting up with this kind of shit all winter already. He will not be shown up in front of his team, and worse, his new teammate, who is watching avidly from his side of the garage.
“I’ll make it the best night of your life,” he says, voice low. The Majorcan likes the sound of that promise, and his expression eloquently says as much.
Their intense stare-off is interrupted by Marc laughing loudly. This does not endear him to Dani.
Not much that season does, to be perfectly honest.
Texas
“It’s a fluke,” Jorge said quickly. “We don’t know this track as well as the others, so experience really doesn’t count for that much here.”
“Yeah,” Dani agrees. His tone belies his disbelief. He has the tiniest inkling that they might be in trouble, this year.
Jerez
“The little bastard!” Jorge fumes after the podium. “That place was mine and he rode dangerously to take it.”
Dani pats his arm, but manages to stop both his grin and his ‘There, there’, consolation before they reach his mouth.
He finds the whole thing amusing, at this point.
Sachsenring
“Bugger me,” Jorge says, in that quiet moment before the cameras come in. “Not a one off victory, then?”
Dani’s face is agreement enough.
Laguna Seca
“He really likes America,” Dani mused, looking across the Honda pit.
Jorge wasn’t supposed to be there, but few people bothered stopping either man from entering the other’s garage when data wasn’t on the table. “You distract Nakamoto and I’ll hide the body,” he suggests instead of worrying over the half hysterical, half threatened note in Dani’s voice.
He laughs when Dani looks like he’s actually considering it.
Indianapolis
“Bugger me,” Jorge says, but this weekend it is more emphatic.
“He really likes America,” Dani says, in a breathless, oh shit we’re in trouble kind of agreement.
Brno
“Oh, come on!” Dani moans when it’s just the two of them. “Brno was our circuit!”
Jorge looks at him, and he knows they’re both thinking of the 2012 race and the parc firmé handshake that really started the not quite-friendship they shared at the beginning of 2013.
“Just a quick kid, huh?” Dani mocks Jorge’s words over the winter.
Jorge is so sleeping on the couch for this. “Well,” he says carefully, “I wasn’t exactly wrong, was I?”
Silverstone
Jorge’s a little over-enthusiastic on the podium, but it’s warranted. And God knows Dani needed that hug and kiss, what with the look on his face. It nearly broke Jorge’s heart.
The cameras love it.
The little shit, Marquez, is grinning too, in a ‘aw shucks, aren’t they cute?’ sort of way that makes Jorge want to break Marc’s face.
It’s an urge he’s becoming intimately familiar with.
Aragon
“I,” Dani enunciates carefully, “Am going to kill him.”
“Dani-” Jorge tries to calm him down.
“I’m going to skin the little bastard alive and use his skin for my next set of leathers.”
Jorge accepts defeat (and the by now familiar sofa).
“Remember 2006? Don’t you think it’s just karma for Estoril? Hayden’s got to be laughing his arse off right about now.”
“I wasn’t riding dangerously!” Dani protests. “I just- lost control and took him out. I apologised. I didn’t knock him out of the race, ride on and call it an unfortunate incident!”
Jorge has to laugh. “But you would have if you could have kept the bike running, right?”
Dani is mulishly silent. Then, “He’s still a little bastard.”
Jorge nods.
“I’d still like to kill him.”
Another nod.
“You’re still sleeping on the couch tonight.”
Jorge swears.
Phillip Island
It’s petty, but Dani’s grinning.
Black flag, 93.
When he and Jorge meet eyes after the race, he knows Jorge was grinning too.
The two of them smile all the way to the press conference.
Motegi
“You realise,” Dani says that night, “It’s all up to you now.”
“What is?” Jorge’s head is fuzzy from tiredness and satiated bliss, and he doesn’t, for once, understand Dani’s train of thought.
“I’m too far behind to catch you two on points,” Dani points out.
“You could still-”
“Be realistic. I’m not counting on you or Marc dropping it to score my points.”
“He’s going to do something stupid,” Jorge says, mostly to make himself feel better. “It’s his first season, there’s so much pressure on him and he’s never done it before…” Jorge trails off, aware that none of this is making him feel better.
“Well, shit.” Dani sums up the situation succinctly.
Valencia
“Bugger me,” Jorge said. “The kid actually did it.”
Dani buried his head in his hands, and died a little on the inside.
From his celebrating on the podium, Marc Marquez didn’t even notice as he lifted the trophy and grinned for the world to see.