hoopyfrood: (Fox Mulder [X-Files])
[personal profile] hoopyfrood
Title: Memories From A Moment
Pairing: Rubens Barrichello/Jean Alesi, Eddie Irvine
Rating: R
Word count: 1,663
Disclaimer: Never happened, don't own
Summary: Jean scores his first career win, but there may be someone else even happier about it than him.
A/N: Jean and Rubens are one of my strange little F1 OTPs. They're both just utter sweethearts and, in my mind, work hideously well together. Anyway, this takes place at the 1995 Canadian GP and turned out way sappier than I intended. Enjoy!

It's all a bit too much to take.

The noise, the colours, the people.

There's so many people; he almost wants to try and count them all. To remember every last detail so that ten, twenty years, down the line, this moment is still fresh and vivid in his mind. Even though, hopefully, he'll have a few first places under his belt by then.

He shouts a string of incoherencies, his throat already raw, and holds the Brazilian flag high over his head before Eddie pulls him into a hug. "Well done, mate," he says close to his ear.

"I can't believe it," Rubens admits, slipping an arm round his teammate's back. His season has so far consisted of four retirements and a seventh place, absolutely nothing to be proud of. Then coupled with the heartbreak of last year, well, Rubens was beginning to lose faith.

He grips the flag pole tight and thinks of Ayrton. Thinks of how much he misses him. He vaguely registers a hand on his shoulder, a quick squeeze when he's handed his trophy.


He sneaks a peak out the corner of his eye and sees the most radiant smile stretched across the Ferrari driver's face. One he's never seen before, not even in their far too few moments together; one that leaves him feeling winded and just so utterly besotted. It takes all of his strength not to stagger and reach out to Jean with eager hands.

He claps as loudly as he can, blinking away the tears that threaten to fall.

With Jean next to him, and Eddie just a few feet away on the opposite side of the podium, he doesn't think he's ever felt more complete.


"Jean!" Rubens laughs, immediately latching onto Jean as they're herded away after the last drop of champagne has been spilt. "You won! You won!" He jostles the Frenchman's arm about in excitement, making them both stumble to the side.

Eddie snorts from behind them.

Jean smiles fondly and places his hand over Rubens' in an attempt to calm him down. "You're more happy for me than I am."

Rubens bites his lip, worrying it between his teeth, suddenly self-conscious. "You deserve it, though."

Jean blinks and he clears his throat, all too aware of the heat spreading across his face. "Merci," he croaks, sliding a hand up to Ruben's neck and splaying his fingers out in a loose grip. Rubens smiles and relishes in the touch, unwilling to let go of Jean as they make the short journey to the press room.

The post-race conference itself is a blur. Ruben's sits there and wills his heart beat to slow by trying to concentrate on the lyrical inflections of Jean's voice; those ups and downs he's so familiar with, but will always enjoy listening to. In all honesty, It just makes him all the more restless.

He stumbles over his words when the reporters get to him, failing to make the English click in his brain before it spills out of his mouth. He doesn't care, they move on. Jean squeezes his knee under the table and, not for the first time since standing on the podium, Rubens wishes it was just the two of them.

Eddie sidles up to him once the interviews are over, unable to contain his urge to meddle.

"Go on, i'll cover for you." Eddie grins widely and claps him on the back. Rubens frowns. Eddie has that glint in his eye, the same one the entire paddock is more than familiar with; playful, smug, and strangely sincere all at once. It's landed quite a few of them in some interesting, if not all entirely legal, situations in the past. Point is, he knows what Eddie's implying.

He looks back over to Jean. Could he, they, get away with it?

Seeing his hesitation, Eddie elbows Rubens in the ribs in an attempt at encouragement. "Don't say I never did anything for you," he adds with a wink.

Rubens, feeling seventeen again and just so ridiculously naughty, nods. Well, why not? He edges over to Jean, grabs his wrist and begins to gently tug him away from all the chaos. Eddie meanwhile, true to his word, whips out his best distraction techniques. The remaining gathered officials lap it up, leaving them free to sneak away.

Jean lets himself be lead without so much as a raised eyebrow. Content, and more than a little interested, to see where Rubens takes him. They've dealt with the press, celebrated in front of the fans, now it's time to just relax and absorb it all in.

Jean can't help but chuckle at Rubens' determination, his back straight and hold on Jean's wrist tight as he searches for a secluded corner of the building. He's always found the younger man's enthuthiasm endearing. Whilst often quiet on screen and during interviews, Rubens is exuberant around the other drivers. Especially now that he's finally found his place amongst them all.

Satisfied that they're far away enough from the media, Rubens pushes Jean against a wall and molds himself to his front, desperate to feel every inch of him through their damp overalls. Jean's hands immediately go to Rubens' backside to tug him closer, his body having switched to autopilot as soon as his back hit the wall.

Rubens swipes Jean's cap off, followed by his own, and drops them uncermoniously to the floor. Jean eyes his heaving chest and flushed cheeks curiously, the obvious need radiating off Rubens is palpable. He doesn't think he's ever seen him so tightly wound. Not because of want, or need, or happiness.

Rubens curls his fingers round Jean's jaw and brings him forward to finally fit their mouths together. He moans in relief, the buzzing throughout his veins melting away into pure liquid warmth. Rubens slides his lips over Jean's with ease and familiarity, eagerly dipping his tongue into the willing mouth. Jean responds by expertly catching Rubens' bottom lip between his teeth and sucking it into his mouth, soon releasing it so he can delve back and successfully drink in Rubens' small mewl of pleasure.

When they part, Jean gently rubs the pad of his thumb over Rubens' cheek, their breaths mingling. "Mon amour," he whispers, lips red and shining and so utterly perfect. Rubens fits his thigh between Jean's legs and nudges his knee up into his groin.

Caught off guard, Jean sucks in some air through his teeth and knocks his head back onto the wall behind him. Rubens seizes the opportunity to greedily latch his lips onto Jeans neck. His skin tastes of sweat; the salty tang an intoxicating accompaniment to the sweet Moet they sprayed over each other not so long ago.

"Rubens," Jean pants, "Anyone could walk by."

"I know," Rubens grins, palming him through his overalls. Jean is heavy and thick in his hand, and despite the annoying material barrier, Rubens flexes his fingers to feel as much of him as he can.

Jean chokes lightly on a laugh. "Second place makes you such an exhibitionist!" He says, tongue fitting awkwardly round the pronounciation. "I can't wait to see what first turns you into." His voice drops an octave as he imagines just what a win would potentially drive Rubens to do. His mind conjuring up so many wonderfully debauched possibilities, that he feels himself grow harder.

"Placing doesn't matter," Rubens begins, running his hands up Jean's stomach and tracing the various sponsors that litter Jean's overalls, "It's being up there with you." With his wide eyes and unflinching sincerity, Rubens looks less than his twenty-three years, and Jean can feel himself falling under that certain special spell of his all over again. This young Brazilian; a smile always gracing his face and with the time for anyone who needs it, in his arms. Always in his arms.

"This will have to be enough for now, i'm afraid." Jean stands on his tiptoes and hooks an ankle round the back of Rubens' leg. His hands drift to the small of Rubens' back and, slowly, he eases him upwards to grind their hips together. "We can't risk much more," he apologises.

"Jean," Rubens half sobs at the contact, his nerves completely frazzled.

The friction is glorious and Rubens quickly begins to match Jean's shallow thrusts. He clutches at Jean's shoulders, using him as a support so he can connect their cocks at every feasible and delicious angle. He messily seeks out Jean's lips once more, forgoing any finesse in the name of wet heat and desperation, groaning into Jean's mouth thanks to a particularly spectacular roll of the other man's hips into his.

They rut against each other, frantically rubbing, all semblance of cohesion lost as the adrenaline that still bubbles beneath the surface entwines with burning lust. It's not ideal. Jean's legs are shaking from the strain, he is eight years older than Rubens he reminds himself, and the lack of skin on skin contact boarders on painful. Even the sound of Rubens' hands slapping against the wall on either side of his head is more dirty than he thought possible, and he aches to get his hands on Rubens' thighs, his hips; to suck and bite him all over.

Instead, he grips at the back of Rubens' hair, sliding the damp strands between his fingers, and pulls. Rubens whines and mumbles something in Portuguese, when his whole body suddenly stiffens. Jean watches transfixed as Rubens' eyes flutter closed and his face contorts in pure ectasy. The sight alone is enough to make him come himself, and he arches off the wall, pressing himself against Rubens as he rides out his orgasm.

They stay embraced for a couple of moments, the sounds of their heavy breathing echoing throughout the empty corridor.

"Happy Birthday, Jean," Rubens eventually slurs, slumping over him fully, completely drained.

Jean laughs and kisses him on the forehead, content to take Rubens's weight. "It definitely is."

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