hoopyfrood: (Jo Bonnier [F1])
[personal profile] hoopyfrood
Title: Another Life
Pairing: François Cevert/Bruno Senna, but mainly gen
Rating: G
Words: 883
Disclaimer: Didn't happen couldn't happen, don't own
Summary: Written for a prompt on [livejournal.com profile] motorskink that asked for a snippet of any driver from the 70s or earlier as a current driver.



Bruno rounded the corner just in time to see a beautiful young woman gently close the door to François' hotel room. She looked up as the lock clicked and Bruno forced a smile onto his face, one he hoped was as friendly as he intended. She quickly ducked her head in embarrassment as she hurried passed; her coat haphazardly thrown over one arm and ponytail messily falling out of its band.

He shook his head in amusement and lifted his hand to rap his knuckles sharply against the wood.

He didn’t have to wait long before François opened the door with a flourish. He was shirtless, a pair of boxers hanging off his hips and a cigarette dangling from his bottom lip. Bruno felt his heart leap into his throat at the sight.

"You're not allowed to smoke in these rooms,” he pointed out as way of greeting.

François chuckled and elegantly plucked the cigarette from his mouth between two fingers.

"Which is why I was on the balcony," he stepped to the side and gestured to the open doors behind him, the long curtains billowing inwards.

Bruno rolled his eyes. “God forbid you go without your fix.”

François chuckled again and retreated back into his room, a slight saunter to each step. "Join me? I’d appreciate the company," he threw over his shoulder.

Bruno followed. The room smelt like sex and the bed covers were still very obviously rumpled; probably still warm, too. A small thrill clawed its way up Bruno’s spine at the thought of what François had been doing only a few hours, maybe even a few minutes, before.

"Company is one thing you definitely don’t seem to be short of," he said.

"Company and company are two very different things, Bruno."

"Not always."

François cocked his head, a small smile quirking his mouth upwards. "No, not always," he agreed.

Bruno suddenly became extremely aware that he was clutching his battered laptop under one arm. Not to mention that, in his haste, he’d thrown on yesterday’s t-shirt. Which really wasn’t as fresh as it could be.

He felt distinctly out of place.

There wasn’t anyone he was closer to in the paddock than François. But sometimes, regardless of their easy friendship and success as team-mates, he felt like they were worlds apart. Of course, Bruno knew deep down he was just projecting; no one made François laugh as much as he did. And he took great pride in that. Yet, thinking of him as untouchable – even just a little bit – made those moments when he wanted nothing more than to catch François’ bottom lip between his teeth and run his hands up under his shirt easier to live with.

Almost.

Bruno cleared his throat. "I came to see if you wanted to grab breakfast together."

François hummed and let a swirl of smoke seep out from his barely open mouth. "Maybe," he eventually replied and gave Bruno a sidelong glance, making no attempt to move from his spot against the black railings.

For the next few minutes, they stood in a companionable silence. Bruno pulled his cap further down and took the opportunity to admire François' profile out the corner of his eye. The light breeze was ruffling his hair into further disarray, curling it artfully into his eyes, and the tanned bronze of his skin was a stark contrast against the bland Japanese sky.

"I have a good feeling about today," François mused, absentmindedly flicking some ash over the side of the balcony.

Bruno snorted. "Because your season has been so terrible up until now," he teased. "Remind me, how many points are you clear of Jenson now?"

François laughed loudly and stubbed his cigarette out with strangely refined elegance. He padded over to Bruno, his bare feet slapping against the tiles as he closed the gap between them.

In one swift movement, he swiped Bruno’s cap off his head. Deep blue eyes locked with Bruno’s brown, and the good natured objection that had threatened to spill out from between the Brazilian’s lips disappeared.

"Who said I was talking about the race?"

This close, Bruno could smell the smoke on his breath. And as unpleasant as it should be – Bruno would wrinkle his nose in disgust if it was anyone else – it was just so very François. Intoxicating; like every other part of him.

"Breakfast, you say?" François asked, his voice low. Very nearly a whisper.

"If you want," Bruno offered.

François swayed in closer, the tip of his nose brushing ever so slightly against Bruno’s. "I’d like that," he said with a small, fond smile that seemed to soften the intensity of his eyes into something gentler.

"Leave this off though, yes?" He added and held up Bruno’s cap, wriggling it around in his grasp, "I prefer you without it."

Bruno felt his cheeks heat, utterly charmed despite his best efforts not to be. He really should be used to this side of the Frenchman by now. "Deal."

François nodded, satisfied, and carelessly flung it onto his bed. "Just give me a moment, and then I’m all yours."

He winked and ambled back through his room to disappear into the small ensuite bathroom without as much as a backwards glance.

He did, however, leave the door open.

Wide open.

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