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"Congrats, by the way."
"Piss off, you already said that."
"Not for the win."
Nicolo tilts his head back, readjusting on the bed. Toprak's bed is huge, and far more comfortable than his own. Benefits of being a champion and whatnot.
"Ah."
The seat is kind of a touchy subject- mostly for Nicolo. He's bitter, sure, it's not a secret that MotoGP has a kind of allure and magnificence that superbikes just doesn't, and any rider worth their skill wants to end up there. Superbikes gets the rejects, the ones who weren't quite enough. Just look at Chantra and Olivera joining the paddock. It doesn't really go the other way. But heaven and earth seem to shift for Toprak, so why not racing?
Mostly though, it's the end of this. Whatever this is. They've both left it conviniently undefined. He doesn't even know when it started, just that it ends now.
Now.
Nicolo's sure he's the only one of them who cares; Toprak has never exactly been a touchy-feely guy, and he's not the type to hold back either. If he'd had something to say, he'd say it.
But he doesn't, so the silence thrums between them for a little longer.
"Thanks." Is all he does finally say, a little quietly.
The last time they talked about the seat was less of a talk, and more of an argument. Valencia. The conversation had sprouted from good intent, Toprak way too eager to talk about what he thought of the Ducati. He burst through the door whilst he was still changing for crying out loud. But it was a terrible session and all Nicolo could think about was how Toprak had done it, he'd made it, and he hadn't.
Again, bitter, petty, selfish. He wasn't as good as Toprak.
It wasn't a huge disagreement, he just panicked and got too defensive. Shields up, too spiteful, and pushed him away.
Next to him, Toprak shifts to sit up. Involuntarily, he tenses, eyes flicking over to him. Already? Maybe Nicolo had ruined it. Usually they talked a little. That's what made everything perfect. The talking, the casual comfort in bathing in that shared moment, just them, alone. No one was quite like Toprak, he'd discovered. He'd never felt quite so much like himself.
Nicolo definitely ruined it. Toprak wrapped a towel around his waist and reached up to flip the switch of the extractor fan on for the ensuite.
He squeezed his eyes shut, and bit his lip to stop himself talking.
"Nic? You alright?"
The general rule tends to be, if you have to ask someone if they're okay, they probably aren't.
"Yeah." If his eyes were open, he'd see Toprak, head slightly tilted, doing that freakish unblinking thing he always did when he was focused on something.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
The floor creaked slightly, light footsteps floating across the room.
"Nic." His words felt like a cross between a gentle scolding, and slight worry.
He felt Toprak's blunt nail dig into the soft flesh under his chin, and swallowed against it. His eyes opened, almost against his will, vision blurry.
A year ago, he would've laughed at him. Maybe even a couple months after. But not now.
God, he doesn't want to be here. He's changed his mind, he can fuck off. Nicolo chokes down an embarrassing noise and blinks tears out of his eyes. He's not normally like this, promise, he's not emotional, he's got the whole shut-up-and-suffocate-on-it thing going on. He just forgets it when it comes to Toprak.
His heart thumps a little harder. His vision is clear now, and the silence between them is back. Toprak's hand is still on his chin, propping him up.
It feels like the end of a movie.
It feels as though there should be a camera, zooming out. A screen fading to black as some stereotypical sad indie replaces the bleak, blank noise between them.
But it doesn't. It's still rolling.
"Nic." He says again. Quieter. He ducks his head, pushing himself a little closer.
"God- sorry," He chokes out, hand rising up to feebly wipe his eyes.
"Why are you sorry?" He's gentle, searching, voice oozing the want to understand.
"Seriously? You're- this, Toprak, this fucking- situation, whatever it is, and then, this- me crying. Jesus, you're making me say it. God that's pathetic." He makes a move to get up, and more importantly, away, away from what he's doing, what's he's feeling. The hand on his chin snaps to his jaw, and he stops.
"It's not forever."
"Yeah, it fucking is, but it doesn't matter. This doesn't matter. It wasn't anything serious." It's a lie, hot and fresh like bread out of a bakery.
"Wasn't it?"
Nicolo feels his face fall again.
"Was it?"
Toprak leans in and gently kisses him, for the first time. The moment sits between them. He pulls back enough to lose touch, but not far enough. Nicolo lets out a little breath, eyes flicking left and right wildly, all he can see is him, all he can feel is his breath on his skin, all he can hear is his heartbeat, all he can taste is him, all he can smell is him. He's drowning, in the best sense of the word, and he's feels as though he's flying, in the worst.
"It's not forever." He repeats.
"Yeah, it is." He mumbles. "It's okay, though. It's okay. It's okay."
"Nic-"
"I love you." He breathes. "And I hope you beat every single one of those fuckers on your shitty little Yamaha and you break every record ever set and you ride until your body can't take it anymore and you get unbelievably rich and you find someone you love like I love you."
"It's not forever." He repeats, some kind of mantra.
"Maybe not truly, but it's as close to forever as it's going to get. If I-" his breath hitches, words choking him. "If I see you again-"
"When." Toprak corrects, his other hand coming up to steady him.
"When I see you again," he begins again, vision blurring, "Wherever, whenever, I don't care. When I see you again, it'll be- it'll be okay." It sounded more like a question. He tipped his head forward, so he could pretend for a second, that it was all going to work out.
"Yeah. Yeah, it will."