The hotelβs elevator doors slide shut, sealing us into a mirrored box that suddenly feels too small. It's far past midnight after the party ended, and we're both drunk enough that the usual careful distance has gone fuzzy around the edges.
The whiskey sits warm and reckless in my chest, and I can feel it loosening my tongue before my brain can slam the brakes on whatever catastrophically stupid thing is about to come out of my mouth.
This is a bad idea. This is such a spectacularly bad fucking idea.
I watch Nico's reflection in the polished elevator doorsβjaw tight enough to crack teeth, shoulders rigid like he's bracing for impact, still performing that cold robotic shit routine even several drinks deep into what most people would call relaxation.
It's almost impressive, really. The way he never quite lets himself unravel.
Like he's afraid that one moment of genuine human emotion might shatter his entire carefully constructed persona.
Challenge accepted.
"You know," I say, voice deliberately casual in the way that usually precedes me saying something I'll regret for years, "Julien might actually be onto something with that whole pre-race ritual theory."
Nico's eyes flick to mine in the mirror, then away. His silence only makes the alcohol-fueled words come easier, like his refusal to engage is somehow permission to keep talking.
Dangerous territory, Lindqvist. Abort mission. Return to base.
Fuck base. I'm committed now.
"I mean, think about it," I continue, leaning against the elevator wall and grinning at his reflection like I'm discussing tire compounds instead of... whatever the hell this is. "Four wins in five races. That's not luckβthat's statistically significant data. Meanwhile, we've been driving like we learned racing from a cereal box."
The silence stretches taut enough to snap. Nico stares at those elevator doors like itβs the most fascinating thing in the universe instead of just our distorted reflections.
"I'm genuinely curious about the methodology," I continue, enjoying the way his shoulders stiffen. "Does it have to be good sex? Or does any sex work? Is it the physical release or the psychological aspect?"
"Stop talking." Nico's voice is flat, dangerous.
Definitely should stop talking. Absolutely should stop talking right now.
I ignore him entirely. "Maybe Henrik should add this to the official team protocol. Performance enhancement through strategic sexual release."
His hands clench into fists, knuckles white, and it's the most genuine reaction I've gotten all night, and something dark and reckless in my chest wants more.
"Although," I add, grinning wider, "I bet the effect is cumulative. If teammates hooked up, it might double the performance boost. Should we test the hypothesis? For science, of course."
The elevator dings and Nico practically bolts out the doors.
I follow, grinning like the absolute menace I apparently am. "You could finally put all that 'openly gay role model' energy to practical use. Really lean into your brand."
He doesn't respond, just stalks toward our shared suite with the kind of rigid control that makes me want to poke at him until something snaps.
And why exactly do I want to make him snap? When did that become a goal?
Inside the suite Henrik insisted we share for some fucked up teammates bonding sesion, I toss my jacket over a chair and keep talking like we're having a normal conversation instead of me destroying any chance of professional civility between us.
"You can't possibly claim you've never thought about it," I continue, watching him head toward his bedroom. "All that energy we waste trying to destroy each otherβimagine redirecting it into something actually productive."
Nico doesn't respond, which only makes the reckless part of my brain push harder.
Stop. Talking. You absolute fucking idiot.
"What's wrong, Almeida?" I call after him. "Afraid you might actually enjoy 'corruptingβ the straight teammate? Or does your whole pristine brand fall apart if you admit you've thought about taking my cock since you were seventeen?"
That finally makes him stop walking.
His shoulders go rigid in a way that sends my pulse spiking, and I know I've hit something raw.
Oh. Shit.
I take a step closer, voice sharpening with genuine curiosity now. "Or maybe that's the real problem. Maybe you've really thought about it. Maybe you've thought about it a lot, and that's what's got you so wound up you can barely function."
The words hang in the air for a moment before Nico movesβcrosses the space between us in five strides like some kind of predator and suddenly I'm slammed against the wall.
His muscled forearm across my chest, fury blazing in those dark eyes like a fucking hell fire. "What the fuck is your problem?"
Holy. Shit.
His voice is so low and dangerous, vibrating with barely contained rage that makes every nerve ending in my body fire warning signals.
"You think this is funny? You think you can just mock me? Provoke me? Test how far you can push before I snap?"
My heart is hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape, but I keep the smirk in place even though his proximity is doing complicated, alarming things to my ability to form coherent thoughts.
He's close enough that I can feel his hot breath on my face, close enough to see the rapid pulse jumping in his throat, close enough to smell whiskey and something darker on his breath that makes my head spin.
This is bad. This is so, so bad.
And why am I not more upset about it?
"I'm just making conversation," I manage, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to breathless.
"Bullshit." He leans in, pressing harder, and fuck, he's strong. "What are you actually suggesting, Soren? Say it clearly instead of hiding behind your jokes like a coward."
I meet his stare without flinching, even with my back against the wall and his weight pinning me in place like I'm some kind of butterfly he's examining.
"Just saying. Maybe we're both frustrated. Maybe we're both racing like garbage. Maybe your self-righteous control-freak routine is part of the problem."
His eyes narrow. "And?"
"Maybe you need to let loose for once in your perfectly controlled life."
"Let loose," Nico repeats with contempt. "With you."
"Why not?" My grin turns mocking, reckless, incapable of backing down even when it's obviously the smart play. "We already hate each other. Nothing to lose. Unless you're scared. Unless you've been so busy being the perfect gay representation that you've forgotten how to actuallyβ"
His hand comes up fast, gripping my jaw hard enough that I can feel each individual finger, hard enough to bruise. "Shut. Up."
My whole body locks in place from the contact. I haven't felt his hands on me in eleven years, and I didn't miss it, of course I didn't. But he's too close and his calloused palm against my face is basically trying to terrify me into submission, exceptβ¦
"Make me."
We're frozen like thatβhis fingers digging into my jaw, our bodies pressed together, both breathing hard enough to fog windows.
Then Nico's expression shifts into something dark and raw and absolutely devastating.
"You've been running your mouth all night because you're desperate for something you don't even understand? So used to women falling at your feet that you have no idea what to do with actually wanting a man?"
The words hit like ice water, and my smirk finally as my chest goes tight with something that might be panic.
"You think I haven't noticed? The way you watch me in the garage. The way you can't stay away. You've been circling this for weeks, making your little jokes, testing boundaries."
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
"So here's my question, Lindqvistβare you actually straight, or have you just been lying to yourself for so long you believe your own bullshit?"
My throat closes completely. "Fuck you."
"That's not an answer."
The air between us crackles with something rawer than hostility.
I know I should shove him away, should end this before it goes somewhere irreversible, before we cross a line that'll make sharing a garage completely impossible.
Instead, I hear myself say, "Maybe I just wanted to see what it would take to make perfect Nico Almeida finally lose control."
"Congratulations," Nico says, voice like acid. "You succeeded."
And then⦠We're kissing. I couldn't tell who moves first if my life depended on it, but suddenly his mouth is on mine and it's not gentle, not even remotely gentle.
It's eleven years of rivalry and weeks of forced proximity and too much alcohol combusting into something aggressive and consuming and completely fucking inevitable.
His mouth is hard against mine, teeth catching my lower lip, and I grab fistfuls of his hair, pulling him closer even as I'm trying to fight for control.
We're fighting as much as kissing, hands grappling for dominance, everything sharp edges and bruising pressure. His fingers caging the back of my neck, and I bite his infuriatingly soft lip in retaliation, tasting copper and whiskey.
This is insane. This is completely insane. And why don't I want it to stop?
I shove us away from the wall, trying to flip our positions, trying to steer this toward familiar territory where I'm in control.
We stumble toward the couch, and for about thirty seconds I think I might actually gain the upper hand. I've got his shirt half-unbuttoned, am maneuvering us the way I always do with women.
Then Nico grabs my wrists and reverses our positions in one smooth movement, and suddenly I'm on my back on the couch with him looming over me, pinning my hands above my head with undeniable strength.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
"Who said you're gonna be the top?" His voice is rough, absolute, leaving no room for argument.
I try to break the grip, but his strength is undeniable. "What are youβ"
"You're going to be my lucky charm, Lindqvist. Not the other way around." His smile is sharp, dangerous, nothing like his usual cold mask. "You wanted to know if the theory works? Let's find out."
