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There should be some kind of rule, Jenson thinks. People you should not, under any circumstance, ever get involved with: journalists, team mates, championship rivals, and drivers who crash into your car and end your race. Especially those.
Of course, hindsight is 20-20. It's not like he could have guessed a week ago that the guy who kept throwing him lopsided smiles that turned positively suggestive when no one was looking would take him out in lap one of the following race.
To say things haven't exactly gone according to plan would be an understatement. He's tired and pissed off, and all he wants to do is raid the mini bar and get some sleep without thinking about the race or worrying about the championship or the fact that tomorrow, he'll have to apologize to Jules for yelling at her because she booked his flight home for Monday instead of Sunday night. Rehashing today's accident – again, because apparently, the chat afterwards and the stewards' inquiry and the gazillion post-race interviews weren't enough – is just about the last thing he needs now.
"Look, mate, not to be rude, but I don't want to do this now," he says, and hopes that the young man standing outside his hotel room will take the hint and quietly fuck off.
Inexperienced as Grosjean may be, even he should know that this is not how things are done in Formula One. You leave the racing incidents at the track or silently carry a grudge; you don't come knocking on other drivers' hotel rooms to discuss who's to blame and why. Not that, in this particular case, there should even be a fucking discussion necessary.
The fresh surge of anger Jenson feels is harder to fight down than it was at trackside, with a dozen of cameras pointed at them and hundreds of people watching. Racing accidents happen and all that, but right now all he can think of is how many points he lost today and that maybe this is gonna cost him the championship, and – fuck, Grosjean really should get lost!
Except, of course, he doesn't.
He just stands there, almost pale in the harsh fluorescent light. His jaw is set in sharp, angular lines; he's looking sullen and unhappy, as if he's itching for a fight. And really, wouldn't that be the highlight of this weekend? Jenson can already see the headline in the press tomorrow: Button breaks Grosjean's nose after Grosjean breaks his car. Jules would kill him and make sure no one ever found the body.
Grosjean, predictably, hasn't pissed off yet, and Jenson reluctantly makes a decision. If they have to do this, then maybe they should take it inside instead of yelling at each other in a public corridor.
"Fine," he sighs, and moves aside, weary of this discussion before it has even started. "Come on in."
Grosjean saunters into the room like he owns the place, hands in the pockets of his jeans, gaze assertive and haughty and decidedly guilt-free, as if he hadn't single-handedly ruined Jenson's race this afternoon because he was too stupid to put his foot on the brake at the right moment.
Jenson clenches his teeth and shuts the door. When he turns around, Grosjean – fuck, Romain; he had his hands on the guy's dick a week ago, even if he now wishes he'd never met him, so thinking of him in terms of surnames is ridiculous – Romain, then, is watching him intently.
"Is this going to be a problem?" he asks out of the blue, throwing Jenson off-balance. It sounds like a question to end a quarrel, not to start one. Also, not a question to ask the night after the race. In two weeks' time, no, it wouldn't be much of a problem anymore. Now? Hell, yes!
He snorts. "You fuck up my race, then you come barging into my room and ask if that's a problem? What the hell do you think?"
Romain looks at him with the same sullen expression he wore when he was waiting to be let into the room. "From where I'm standing, you fucked up my race." He shrugs, focusing Jenson with sharp blue eyes. "Not like we're going to agree on that. You blame me, I blame you. That's how it goes."
It's entirely too nonchalant and matter-of-fact, and Jenson can't resist rising to the bait even though he knows he shouldn't. "Except for the part where I'm right and you're not, you mean?"
For a long moment, all Romain does is look at him, and Jenson waits for the retort and wonders how far they're going to take this. They'll snap at each other and then they'll start yelling, and maybe someone will get in the other's face and push them, and the other one will push back and one of them will throw a punch, unless someone's smart enough to shut the fuck up and walk away before that.
Romain's fingers are distractedly playing with the TV remote control he picked up from the desk, but he continues to watch Jenson carefully, as if he's looking for something. Jenson holds the gaze, challenging.
I'm getting too bloody old for this, he thinks. And, somewhere beneath his resentment, where the carefree exchange of flirtatious smiles from Valencia is still a fresh, vivid memory: Pity it'll go down like this.
When Romain finally speaks, though, it's not what Jenson expected at all.
"You're still angry." Even though it's such a pointless statement of the obvious that it fires Jenson's anger rather than quell it, there's something in his tone that gives Jenson pause. There's frustration and resignation and the dull edge of disappointment in that voice, and it gets even more pronounced when Romain adds, "You want me to leave?"
That, at last, is not a statement but a question, and it's noticeably lacking the earlier nonchalance. Such a stupid question, too. Of course he wants—
Jenson mentally rewinds the conversation, and it's a testament to his state of exhaustion that he has to replay the entire situation twice before he realises that Romain didn't come here to talk about the accident – or to talk at all.
He's not sure if it's relief or incredulity that makes him laugh out loud and harsh, but either way, Romain's clearly not happy with his reaction. He frowns and sets down the remote, turning to go.
Before Jenson's made the conscious decision to reach out, his hand clamps down on Romain's wrist, holding him back, and their eyes meet. The barest twitch of Romain's lips catches Jenson's attention, and he can't say he's entirely surprised to find him smiling.
"You've got some nerve," Jenson says, and something uncurls in the pit of his stomach.
Then he's in the other man's space, and for a second, it could go either way – a kiss or a punch, fight or fuck, and when their lips do clash, it's somewhere in the middle. It's bruising and violent and angry, all biting teeth and ruthless tongue and punishing lips, Jenson pushing Romain backwards until the younger man is trapped between his body and the desk, until Romain winces when the hard wooden edge of the desk digs into the small of his back and the grip of Romain's hand on Jenson's neck grows a bit too forceful to be comfortable. So different from the leisured, exploring handjob they'd exchanged in Jenson's motor home in Valencia the other weekend.
It was easy and casual then, but there's nothing easy about this – about them – today, and it stopped being casual the moment Romain turned up at his door to ask if they were okay. It's messy and complicated and has the potential to turn uglier than coming to blows in the hallway.
There really should be some kind of rule, Jenson thinks wryly, but when he grazes his teeth down the tender skin at the side of Romain's throat, Romain makes a soft, needy sound that's sweeter and infinitely more rewarding than any apology he could have offered. Jenson smirks and memorizes the spot for future exploration.
After all, rules are made to be broken.
End.