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Frank and Franz Hermann - a love story

The Hermann's - au where they are actually Frank and Franz.

18+ smut, racing, 4k+ warning for marko appearance?

major love to @billscciardo who comes through with the inspiration as ever. based around the Targa Florio race of 1972 where the number 3 car won.

Gertrude was a gossiper, Franz knew it the moment they moved in and she knocked on the door to say hello. Brought a welcome basket, she said, but what she really brought were nosey eyes and ears disguised by local bread, wine and candles.

A family used to live there, she'd told them, small child in one of the two bedrooms. How nice it was, she said, to see two brothers get along so well they decided to live together in their old age.

"Broth-" Frank started, as Franz swatted him in his chest.

"Yes, Gertrude, simply lovely"

And so it started around town, the rumour of Franz and Frank Hermann, handsome men for their ages, 72 and 79 respectively, brothers who moved to Italy to take over a failing vineyard, growing syrah grapes to make shiraz for the locals. They also grew olives, exchanging them at the local market for cheeses and homemade bread. Both so charming nobody thought to question the fact that they bore no resemblance to each other whatsoever, even in the younger photos that decorated their walls. The only thing in common being their height, though Franz had a habit of slouching, and for a short time, their past was unknown.

Frank first heard about the Targa Florio from his father. Sitting in the dust of the Australian outback as he worked, small legs swinging over the edge of the truck bed while he snacked on fruit, captivated by the stories he was told. His father sounded in awe as he talked about the 72km course, driven at speed through the mountainous terrain he visited as a child himself, death staring you down at every bend. Frank was 6 and absolutely enthralled at the thought. He had a ride on tractor he raced friends with on dirt trails but since that day he yearned for speed. So as soon as he could he set off for Europe. It was different back then, drivers were older, they weren't racing practically from birth and he fit in well.

When he was 24 he met Franz. 17, fresh faced with a thick accent and a natural skill for speed. They got along instantly, fiercely competitive separately but inseparable as friends.

Frank had been waiting for his lunch, picking at his fingers trying to ignore the rumble of his stomach when he overheard a croaky voice across the cobbles, in the midst of frustration with a waitress, neither understanding what the other wanted. The waitress arguing in Italian that he asked for ribollita, the young man was just saying tomato, tomato, over and over in an accent Frank couldn't quite place. After chuckling to himself for a moment he went to intervene. "I just wanted tomato soup," the young man had said. "She said it had tomato but it's… beans?"

"It has tomatoes, it's not tomato soup. Can I order for you?" The young man nodded so Frank ordered the pappa al pomodoro.

"What's that?" he asked, silently mouthing the words, trying to get his tongue around them.

"Tomato soup."

The boy introduced himself as Franz, an aspiring racing driver trying to prove himself to his father who had wanted him to drive formula 1, but Franz wasn't so interested in that. "I don't like the shape of the car," he'd said as if it was a logical explanation, "it's like a tube."

Frank's food arrived first and he didn't wait to tuck in even as Franz continued asking questions. At times he got so excited about asking something back that the manners his mother instilled in him went out the window and he'd forget to cover his mouth as he spoke and chewed. Franz didn't look like he was listening at all when he did that. As Frank finished his food Franz asked what he was doing in Italy himself.

Frank smiled, tongue tracing his bottom lip for the last of the sauce from his manicotti and stood up, pushed in his chair. "Beating you at the race next week," he winked.

Franz sat speechless as Frank walked away, stopped from following by the bowl of soup dumped in front of him.

Frank was cocky and sure of himself and had right to be, he was a good driver and as they found themselves competing against each other more frequently, Franz was slowly showing himself to be somewhat of a prodigy and over time the pair became closer, choosing to compete in the same races rather than just finding themselves there by chance. An excuse to spend time together.

It took 4 years for Franz to wear him down. On his 21st birthday Frank finally gave in to the chasing, innuendos, the outrageous games of gay chicken, and told Franz if he really actually wanted to kiss him he could. He didn't need telling twice and took full advantage of their partially drink impaired states. 4 years of friendship, love and pent up want spilling out in one night. After receiving the best sloppy drunken blowjob of his life, Frank draped himself over the hotel bed and begged Franz to fuck him into the mattress. It didn't last long; Franz was too eager, inexperienced, but as he came he told Frank that he'd loved him since they met.

Hazy and satisfied in the afterglow, they joked they should get married, bodies stuck together with sweat and spilled alcohol as they watched the sunrise through the window. Frank had laughed. "But it makes sense, yes?" Franz protested, shook Frank by the shoulders until he agreed.

It was silly of course, they couldn't possibly get married. They couldn't even be together openly, even though being gay wasn't exactly illegal it was entirely possible to be imprisoned if you caused a scandal, and what exactly was a scandal? If you were unlucky it was just being seen. Franz was bordering on too young to take it seriously, pushing the boundaries even before they'd spent a proper night together and although he was a scrappy kid, Frank didn't fancy either of their chances much. Instead, he travelled a few towns away and applied to change his name. It wasn't exactly above board and he paid through the nose for it but when he came back with a certificate, beautifully written and stamped with Frank Hermann as his name, it was good enough to change his passport as if it had always been that way.

To everyone else they were brothers, the best of friends. To each other - the realest fake husbands there would ever be. One day, Frank promised, they would do it for real.

When Frank won the Mugello grand prix as one of the few drivers who drove each of the 66km laps alone it earned him the eyes of the Ferrari works team, wanting him to work with them as a reserve. The Tuscan heat was intense and by the time he'd finished, drenched in sweat, he was exhausted but celebrated late into the night with Franz by his side. Now firmly established as brothers nobody questioned as they danced together, hugged and kissed each other's cheeks.

One evening as they travelled around the Italian nightlife someone invited them to a gentleman's club; private and exclusive they were told, no prying eyes or ears, what happened in the club, stayed in the club. They saw a lot that night. Men in suits, men in leather, some masked, others giving head under tables. They felt free, to be themselves with others around and lapped it up. They found a nice corner after tiring of dancing, a plush leather seated booth, and soon Franz was spread across Frank, grinding against him as if his life depended on it. They were only interrupted to be given more drinks, the server looking between them curiously. "Aren't you brothers?"

Franz tore himself from Frank's mouth only long enough to say, "not in here," over his shoulder and Frank gave him a wink before tugging Franz back down against him. Their moans as they both came hard and heavy in their jeans were drowned out by the music surging through the dimly lit room.

Ferrari wanted Frank to race the Targa Florio for them. They had a team mate for him but he said he would only do it if they let Franz be his co driver. When he was told he was stupid for making such a demand he thought back to their night at the gentleman's club and although what happened there was supposed to stay there he made a bold move. "You know," he said, slightly amused tone to his voice, "I feel like I've seen you somewhere else, at club perhaps." Frank put his hand up, palm flat and facing away from him, obscuring his vision of the man's eyes, "yeah, I think that's it, it was a nice mask. Tell me to beg for it. Oh, but from the floor, like a dog. I think that'd jog my memory."

"You're trying to blackmail me into giving your…" the man flung his hands about, "brother lover a seat?"

"I'm just saying I think we inhabit the same space, you and I, and one of us has a lot more to lose than a seat. But, bonus for you, he's an amazing driver."

Franz was excited about the news and they set about practicing the route, spending whole days driving it for weeks and noting where it was most likely they'd run into a goat or sheep, where spectators might be standing closest, where one mishap at a barrier could send them down treacherous terrain. Not being a traditional track it was difficult, "bloody Sunday drivers," Frank would say when someone was in the way just going about their regular day. They quickly learned that they had to be up early, just before dawn was best to have the emptiest roads.

The day of the race the track was packed; drivers, spectators, all the crew, it was manic. They'd heard talk of a driver named Helmut who made it very clear he didn't want to be there and thought driving through the mountains was dangerous and stupid and vowed before it even started to never do it again. Franz and Frank were happy to try and prove him right, that he should never bother again. He wasn't the only driver to feel that way though, Frank only got a shot at it because Ferarri's regular drivers weren't interested but the team really wanted to send just one 312P Prototype 3-litre flat-12 sports car to try it out.

All drivers were let go at 15 second intervals. The point being who could complete it in the quickest time. First off was car number 2 then 4, then Franz and Frank's number 3.

Part way through the first lap Frank was ahead, having passed car 4 , and car 2 suffering a problem that had him sat at the side of the road entertaining the locals of the town who all gathered around his car. He did the first 3 laps and a refuelling stop in the mountains at Bivio Polizzi before handing it over to Franz for the next 2 laps.

Breaking down was almost as fun as the race, Frank had heard. There was no hospitality like locals in awe of fast cars who feed the drivers and sometimes even try to repair the cars with their own tools. The number 3, the lone Ferrari in the race, had been in the lead for most of it.

They swapped back to Frank, then Franz for a couple of laps and another refuel before he gave it back to Frank for the last 2.

At 2 laps to go Helmut was closing in. When Frank got to Campofelice he'd caught up, only 30 seconds behind and in the end the Ferarri managed to win by a full 16 seconds. After the race Franz talked about how exciting it was but that they'd been composed and focused, which was a million miles away from Helmut, who said he'd been driving the last 2 like a madman trying to catch up, barely holding on. Years later they'd hear he changed his tune, reckoned he'd done everything right. Revisionist history to look good but they knew the truth, it just made them laugh one morning over coffee and a local paper. But since losing he never did drive there again.

That night, somehow - possibly using the same threat of exposure that he previously used - Frank managed sneak the car back out for "night testing" nothing hardcore, he'd said, he'd be sooooooo careful. He told Franz to meet him up in the hills, just before the town they'd done the refuelling. It was quiet, mostly dark, no street lights up there but Frank saw his headlights winding down the road and flagged him down. Franz was speechless when he saw the Fararri sat slightly off road but louder once Frank enacted his plan, to spread him across the wide front end, three fingers deep and mouth on his cock. Reaching for something to grab hold of as Frank fucked him he nearly snapped off the rear view mirror, but only nearly.

He let Franz drive it back, only offering a wide grin in response to the crew member who pushed back into the garage.

After Targa Frank set his sights on Nascar and they loved his style and the personality he brought so much it was a yes from the start. Franz wasn't so interested but he watched as often as he could while he checked out every other race series possible as something he could do to stay in the country with Frank.

A bad wreck at the Talladega Superspeedway midway though the year put Frank's nascar ambition and racing in general to bed. He says there's something about coming to in a hospital bed you didn't willingly climb into, and being told you had to be cut out of an upside down car that'll do that to you.

So just like that it was over and all Frank wanted to do was go home. Not back to Italy, but Perth with his family. Franz went along, stayed a while and was made to feel very welcome but he still itched for more. As in love as they were he wasn't done with racing and Frank just didn't want anything to do with it, so he stayed long enough to help Frank find a modest patch of land and establish a small farm. They had cows and sheep, horses and alpacas and soon needed help running things. Frank was better with a digger than he was with the animals, as much as he tried, but he learned as well as he could. After a few months Franz left for America to carry on racing. He fell hard for rally driving and traveled frequently to Europe for it but left as soon as he could. He didn't like being there without Franz.

Communication was difficult at times, phone calls to differing timezones always woke one or the other so they wrote to each other often. It was easier for Franz, he always knew where Frank was but had to make sure to let him know well in advance where his schedule might take him, so he wouldn't miss something.

Three times a year Franz would visit Perth and re-learn how to farm for a month. Each time Frank would have a new tattoo or two to show him. Frank would travel out to see him when he could but he'd become quite the recluse and tried not to. Everywhere seemed to have a problem; he'd be recognised in the states, especially anywhere that loved nascar and it turned out their fans were spread far and wide and everyone wanted to talk about his accident. Europe held different memories of where they'd first met, driven together, what could've been if they'd just stayed there.

By the late 80's Franz had enough, risked enough, lost enough, made enough money. He travelled to Perth one night with his bags like it was just another visit. Frank didn't question it, he never asked when Franz was leaving because he always wanted him to stay and it was almost always exactly a month to the day. This time, instead of Frank being woken up by Franz kissing him goodbye he was awoken by a loud beeping noise, looking out to see Franz directing a truck that was backing down the winding dirt road.

"What's going on?" he shouted over the noise through the window. Franz just waved him down, grinning.

When the truck stopped and the driver opened it up, Franz reached in and grabbed a box out, passing it to Frank. It had KITCHEN scribbled on the side. "Will you help me unpack?"

It took them two days to dump everything out and put it all away. The last box remained unopened for three weeks, sat gathering dust in the corner. Franz said it didn't need unpacking but Frank was curious. Franz let him open it, and inside was packed full with every letter he'd ever sent him, dozens and dozens of polaroids the two had taken as well as other things like rocks Franz had found on beach trips together, race entry cards as well as one of Frank's tshirts. Frank pulled each item out, thumbing over it like something precious, recalling all of it except the last thing; a crumpled menu, folded many times. "What's this?" he asked.

"It's from the café where we met," Franz explained. "I hadn't been there before and I didn't want to forget the name of it in case I didn't see you again, so I could look for you there."

Frank wiped away a small tear before it rolled down his cheek. "But why have you left it all in here?"

Franz shrugged, "I don't need it to remember you anymore."

As soon as it became legal, as Frank had promised many years prior, they got married. Fittingly, they travelled to the Netherlands, the first country to legalize it, and Franz spent days showing Frank around his hometown before they found some random people to witness it and finally officially became the Hermanns. It wasn't lavish or filled with friends and family - Frank's parents and sister would've been there in a heartbeat but Franz's father had voiced his disapproval of their relationship one too many times and so they didn't even tell him it was happening. Frank didn't want to be the only one with family there so they both had none. Then they rode bikes around the city and had a picnic in a tulip field until Frank started sneezing, eyes watering.

At the end of the day they found a nice hotel and fucked through the night, after arguing over which of them should carry the other over the threshold. In the end Frank won and he picked Franz up with ease, dropping him down onto the bed for their first night as official husbands.

They country hopped for many years, Frank mostly following Franz around as he mentored and advised for any race series that would have him. Frank went into wine making, falling heavily on his Italian heritage, the Internet really helping the business come alive even if he didn't fully understand how it worked most of the time.

In the end, coming back full circle to where they'd met, they settled in the Tuscan farmhouse where Gertrude introduced herself. Telling them in detail about the organic vineyard and wine cellar like it wasn't the reason they bought it in the first place. She'd asked, like any nosey neighbour, where they'd come from and how they ended up there and they gave vague details, assisted by the photos they'd put up.

She started visiting every weekend, and every time one or both of them would sit and chat about the locals, getting the latest gossip on the town folk. Mostly Frank, who would ply her with their latest wine and olives just to see how loose her gossip would become.

"She keeps staring at you," Franz commented after the latest visit once she'd been ushered out 2 hours later. "Every time," Franz mocked her accent in a higher pitched voice, "oh Frank, what a darling, you do know your wines."

"Aww, someone jealous of the lonely widow?" Frank teased, arms wrapped around Franz's shoulders as he kissed his neck.

"No," Franz pouted but his tone betrayed him, "not at all." He ran his fingers through Frank's salt and pepper curls, staring into the beautiful brown eyes he'd always loved. "But if end up poisoned one day by her biscuits you know the reason." Frank laughed, walking Franz back towards the counter with a thud when he hit it. "Gentle Frank, my back is not what it used to be."

Frank reached down, palm rubbing over the crotch of Franz's jeans, "at least your cock still is," mumbled against his lips, feeling him slowly harden, tongue pushed against his own.

"Frank, are you -"

"It's ok, had one of those tablets before she came over, I think it's kicking in."

The front door swung open with a crash and before they could react, Gertrude was fast walking back into the room. "Forgot my - oh. Oh my," she stood there for a moment in stunned silence at the sight before her. Franz cleared his throat and Frank turned towards the chair still pulled out from the table.

"Your purse, Gert," he said with a wry smile as he handed it to her, cock fully tenting his slacks. She could only nod slowly, mouth agape as she backed out in a flurry of apologies. Frank locked the door behind her as Franz giggled, covering his mouth. "Don't want her walking in on the rest."

"I think already our cover is blown," Franz pulled Frank with him by his cardigan, eager to see the hard length he'd missed the previous few weeks when Frank started having trouble getting it up.

Whatever blend of herbs and other nonsense their neighbour given him, pressed into a pill, had worked so well it was the best afternoon they'd had in a long time and Franz was the one having trouble keeping up. Frank fucked him twice and had a hand job in between to give him time to recover. He was insatiable, eating out Franz's ass like it was the first time, nose bumping his balls as he lay on the bed rubbing his still hard cock between his stomach and the sheets.

After enough time had passed, Frank massaged and licked Franz's soft cock back to life, swallowing him down. Franz gripped his hair, lifting his hips to push himself as far as he comfortably could. When he started making noises, those noises, whiny and needy, Frank pulled off, ignoring the protests from Franz and climbing awkwardly up to kneel over his waist. Franz narrowed his eyes and bit his lip like he always did when Frank slowly lowered himself onto his cock. It was still his favourite sight after all this time; the bliss on Frank's face when he was full, ass pounded, cock leaking as it smacked against Franz's stomach each time he bobbed up and down.

Frank clutched at Franz's chest as he bucked his hips, knees finally getting tired so he lay as much as he could, letting Franz do the work, fucking up into him steady and hard, in sync with his moans. Franz slipped a hand between them to finish him off, knowing he wouldn't be able to resist coming soon if Frank kept squeezing around him the way he was, moaning breathless into his ear. You'd think he'd be used to it after so many years but it still caught him by surprise every time, still made his stomach flutter and his balls draw tight as he made a few pathetic thrusts to finish.

Frank bucked into the tight fist as he came, spilling over his knuckles. He lifted them to his mouth, still writhing over Franz's softening cock as he licked them clean. "You have more of those pills, yes?" Franz croaked out when he could breath fully. His accent and lisp always returning and more pronounced somehow after sex.

"Mhmm, two, but I can get more."

Exhausted, the both lay on the bed, limbs touching, leaking, gross and sweaty, arguing over who should be the first to move. "You should be looking after me, Franz, I'm an old man y'know?"

"No," Franz shoot his head. "That means you should be the gentleman and look after me."

"Maybe we'll just wait for Gerty to come back -"

Franz was up fast at that suggestion.

A few weeks later, the rumour of the brothers who moved into the vineyard morphed into the lovers who had pretended to be brothers. They lost favour with some locals but it didn't matter, most were still welcoming and Gertrude still brought her biscuits. At some point they heard about Helmut, Gertrude with the gossip as usual, a heart issue but she didn't have the details. Frank and Franz joked that it was probably because he learned the young brothers who had so solidly beaten him years ago weren't in fact brothers after all.

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