Work Text:
Fuji, 2007.
It’s dark inside the motorhome. Lights off, curtains drawn. The air tastes like old sweat and illness.
Sebastian knocks once, gentle. Waits.
The door creaks open like it’s been forced to.
Mark stands there, shirt stuck to his chest, skin flushed and clammy. He blinks—once, then twice—eyes unfocused and bloodshot. When they do finally catch on Sebastian, he doesn’t speak. Just lets his hand drop from the handle and turns around, muttering something that could be a curse or a sigh.
Doesn’t shut the door. Doesn’t need to. Sebastian’s already stepping inside.
He’s not leaving until he’s forgiven.
Mark sinks onto the bed like it hurts to hold himself upright. Maybe it does.
The mattress creaks under him; he ignores it.
Shirt riding up his stomach, legs half-bare in boxers pretending to be shorts—his hair’s still wet from a shower, and it curls at the ends like he’s run too hot and too cold back-to-back.
His body is visibly losing the fight against itself.
Sebastian stands awkwardly by the door like picking up a hot date for prom, eager and afraid of the parents.
He hasn’t changed yet, still in fireproofs, half of his Toro Rosso suit hanging at his waist and tied behind by the sleeves. Forearms bare. The torso is darker in places where he’s sweated through, and the line across his face where the helmet pressed down hasn’t quite faded yet. He smells like engine oil, tears, and something more sour underneath.
He flicks on a lamp. Mark groans like he’s been shot.
Sebastian winces. Shuts it again. Then thinks better and flips it back on, dimmed. He’s trembling with the need to do something. So he rifles around until he finds a tea towel.
In the tiny bathroom sink, he runs cold water over the cloth. Wrings it out with shaky hands.
Mark hasn’t said a word. Hasn’t kicked him out. Hasn’t forgiven him either.
Sebastian sits on the edge of the bed and Mark shifts—not away, but towards. Just a little. Just enough space made for him like Mark’s body didn’t get the memo that Sebastian’s the last person he should want around right now.
Sebastian places the cool cloth on Mark’s forehead.
Mark flinches. Breath catches. His lips part.
Sebastian stares. Blinks once.
Wow.
That’s all that comes to mind. Not ‘I’m sorry’ again like earlier that day, not ‘are you okay’, just—wow.
Because even like this—sick, wrecked, ghost-white and glistening—Mark looks like a dream.
Sebastian doesn’t move his hand. Just holds the cloth in place, letting the cold seep into Mark’s fever-warm skin. The silence stretches between them, full of static.
Then, Mark exhales. A long, broken thing. Half-sigh, half-growl.
"You cried," he rasps. Voice grated raw, eyes still closed.
Sebastian flushes instantly. "I—"
"Out there. Cameras caught you. Sniveling like a damn toddler."
Sebastian doesn’t respond. He’s not sure it was meant as an insult anyway. Not with the way Mark turns his face slightly into the cloth, like he's accepting the comfort even while cursing it.
"I fucked it all up," Sebastian says softly. His voice wobbles like he’s saying it for the first time. "You were doing so well. I ruined it."
Mark hums, noncommittal. But his thigh brushes against Sebastian’s, sticky with heat.
"You’ve been puking all day. And still—"
"Don’t flatter me now," Mark mutters. "Too late for that."
Sebastian swallows hard. He places the cloth beside the bed and turns—deliberately slow—to face him. His hands rest on his knees like he’s bracing for judgment.
“Can I...” he falters, then steadies. “Can I help?”
Mark cracks one eye open. “Aren’t you already?”
“No, I mean—” Sebastian’s voice drops, almost a whisper. “Properly.”
His right hand snakes its way to lay on Mark’s thigh.
A silence sharpens between them. Mark stares, glassy-eyed but suddenly a little more present. A little more alert.
“You are a weird little shit, aren’t you,” he mutters. “You crash into me, ruin my race, and now you’re here offering... what? A pity wank?”
Sebastian goes red to the ears. “No! I mean—Not—God, not pity. Just. I’m sorry. I’d—I want to.”
Mark lets his head fall back against the pillow, exposing his throat. “You want me to forgive you with my dick in your hand?”
Sebastian’s breath stutters. “If it helps,” he whispers. “Yeah.”
Another pause. Then Mark shifts. The sheets whisper as his legs spread, barely. Just enough. The way his hips slide forward says more than words.
Sebastian exhales like he’s been underwater too long.
He rubs upwards, careful, reverent. Not groping. Just sliding his palm on Mark’s body, skin hot and damp beneath the fabric.
Waits for protest. None comes.
The fever’s made Mark pliant, silent, aching, and Sebastian’s trembling from how beautiful he is like this.
He’s ruined and pathetic and Sebastian wishes he could keep Mark Webber like this forever, if that means he will be wanted to pick up the pieces.
He cups him through the boxers, slow. Just slow enough to feel the twitch of interest, the heat of him. Mark doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t stop him either. He’s too tired to lie. His body answers for him.
Sebastian strokes once, twice. Shy, then firmer. His lip between his teeth. The guilt still sits in his chest heavy like an anchor, but this is one thing he can do right.
"Is this okay?" he asks quietly. "Will you forgive me?"
Mark groans, but it sounds less like pain this time.
Sebastian works him slow, eyes wide and wet. Every breath Mark takes feeds his hands like kindling, each movement tuned to need instead of pride. His thumb drags gently over the head, wet spot blooming warm through cotton.
Sebastian’s never touched anyone like this. Not with shame in his lungs and worship in his fingers.
"Say it," he whispers. "Say I can make it better."
Mark groans again. Grabs Sebastian’s wrist—but doesn’t pull him away.
“Then shut up,” he mutters. “And do it properly.”
Sebastian nods, eyes glassy.
He drags the waistband of the boxers down and Mark breathes in with it.
Two hands on, Sebastian strokes slowly.
He’s dizzy.
This isn't normal.
Mark’s breathing picks up. His lips part and a sigh makes its way out. Filthy, ragged like he would rather not.
Not be in Sebastian’s hands. Pleasure at the mercy of this impatient, self-centered and inexperienced boy, who’s making him feel so good.
His head doesn’t throb as hard, his stomach has settled. All the muscles in his body tense and shift at the rhythm of those two hands.
Sebastian had managed to dip on the beads of pre-come and use it to stroke but that has now dried up.
“Spit on it.”
Mark’s throat barely functions, it can only go so far to push out a rasped order.
The hands stop in place. Sebastian raises his eyes slowly. Too slow. Taking too much time to dare to do it.
“Do you want to do it right?”
Sebastian nods like a fucking innocent lamb, full lips slightly parted, eyes wide pointed at Mark.
Then his tongue pokes out. Glistening, pink, it pushes on the corner of his lips. And Mark wishes his direction had been suck on it.
Knowing Sebastian he probably would.
Mark closes his eyes. He misses the moment.
The gross, desperate, once in a lifetime moment in which Sebastian leant forward and let a slow, thick drop of drool hang from his mouth and fall on Mark’s cock.
It was colder than his skin the moment it touched him and slipped in between Sebastian’s fingers to act as lubricant.
The twisting motions is what did it in the end.
Sebastian kept stroking. He started playing with the pressure, the speed—slow or extra slow—and the type of motion. And the one that made Mark finish was both hands on, one at the base going clockwise and back; the other covering the head, hood pulled back, going anti-clockwise.
That and the thought of his mouth. Not even the real deal. Just the fact that after all this, there was an excellent chance he could get even more from Sebastian.
And just like that, exhausted and satisfied, his mind shuts off into sleep.
Before Sebastian leaves, he glances back once.
He'd taken the time to clean up. The damp tea towel got used, then washed and wringed before hanging from the sink edge.
Mark was out cold. Hair still damp. Mouth parted. His underwear was settled back in place and Sebastian had pulled a blanket up to his hips too.
Not a single trace of guilt or anger on his face now—just fevered sleep and the hint of a furrow between his brows.
Sebastian is... hard. And for some reason it makes his tears earlier that day make so much more sense.
He walks out into the damp, cold air and doesn’t know what to do with himself.