Pedro doesn't know why he does it. There's nothing good that will come of it, and he knows this.
But he's still trailing after Fermín through the paddock at a far enough distance that he's got plausible deniability, still headed in the general direction of his own motorhome anyway. Who's going to call him out on it? Unless Fermín suddenly turns and spots him, smiles at him like they're anything near on smiling terms. He’s not following Fermín. He’s just headed in the same direction, but stealthily.
Fermín is distracted, anyway. Shoulder-to-shoulder with Marc, swaying together, laughing together. They're so fucking obnoxious. Pedro never had anything against Marc, not until—whatever this is. The way Fermín looks at him like he's not only hung the moon but is currently holding it up in the sky singlehandedly. With a single hand, even.
It just pisses Pedro off, is all. Like, really. Have some fucking self-respect.
Marc is doing that awful cackle he does as he turns them sharply to the left. Pedro catches the briefest glance of Fermín's open-wide laugh, the one that makes him look like the top of his head is about to fall off of its hinges. Then they disappear down an alley between motorhomes.
And Pedro follows them, of course. Again, no idea why he does it. Usually he has the sense to keep his distance.
When he peers around into the alley, they're just going around a corner at the opposite end. Fermín is giggling—giggling!—and Marc is shushing him, even though he's still laughing too. Pedro catches something like, "You promised—" and "Yes, yes, I know—" before he loses sight of them. What is this, a fucking drug deal?
Against all of his own better judgment, of which he has admittedly very little, Pedro creeps down the alley after them. Scoots along the wall of the motorhome, careful, quiet.
He doesn’t know what he’s doing. It’s like magnetism, or gravity, like he can’t stop himself now that he’s gotten so close to seeing whatever it is they’re up to. Which he is, for the record, not at all that interested in.
There’s a cataclysmic shift in his brain when he peeks around this final corner. Like a glacier calving, crashing into the ocean. Shockwaves that nearly knock him back off his feet.
Marc, on his knees. Fermín with his head tipped down and a hand in Marc’s hair and Marc grinning as he unzips Fermín’s shorts. Marc grinning as he licks—as he—
Oh God.
Pedro slithers back around the corner, presses his back to the wall, stares at the motorhome opposite. He’s hallucinating. Someone put fucking LSD in his Red Bull and he’s hallucinating. There’s no other explanation, because otherwise he’d have to believe he just saw Marc Marquez getting on his knees to suck dick.
He doesn’t slide down the wall like he wants to. His knees are shaking a bit but he keeps himself upright, palms flat against hot siding, turns his head just enough to see if the fucking illusion his brain has conjured has disintegrated back into the ether where it belongs.
It hasn’t. Naturally.
Pedro hasn’t seen Fermín’s dick in years. Not like—not like that. It’s impossible to spend the amount of time he and Fermín spent together and not see all sorts of unfortunate things. It is fortunate, kind of, that he’s only seeing a little of it now. Just the couple of inches that Marc doesn’t have in his mouth, between his lips and the tight ring of his thumb and forefinger, just—just that. Yeah.
Fuck. Jesus Christ. Pedro pinches himself, digs his nails into his wrist and decidedly does not wake up from what has to be the most creative nightmare his brain could’ve come up with. It’s awful to watch, is the thing. Like watching one of those fucked up crash compilations, highside after highside. He can’t look away.
Fermín’s head is tipped back against the wall, now, the long expanse of his neck, the twitch of his throat, the part of his lips. He’s breathing heavily. Moaning, maybe, but quietly enough that Pedro can’t quite hear it. Small blessings. The absurd thing is that what he can hear is the wet noise of Marc’s mouth. Slick and rhythmic, like it’s just so good that his mouth is watering uncontrollably. As if.
The way Fermín runs his fingers through Marc’s hair makes Pedro want to bite something, so he bites his own fist. Hard. It startles him out of the trance he has apparently been in; sharp pain like a fishhook pulling him up out of the water. It doesn’t knock any amount of sense back into him, though. Doesn’t trigger the logical part of his brain that is screaming in very small, very italic font: run the fuck away.
It does, unfortunately, force him to notice what else his body’s up to. The awareness floods into him all at once; his hand hurts, obviously. His stomach is lurching, doing cartwheels or backflips, and lower down—well.
Pedro is not going to jack off to this. He is not going to stuff his hand down his shorts and touch himself while he watches Marc sink lower and lower, take Fermín deeper and deeper until even from here Pedro can hear the gag from Marc and the tortured sigh from Fermín. He’s not even going to stay, he tells himself, biting down hard into the meat of his palm until he feels it in the tendons all up his arm. He is not going to stay and see how this finishes. How Fermín finishes.
Fermín, down the alley, suddenly bites his lip. His face scrunches up in a dumb, ugly way. Both of his hands are in Marc’s hair, and Marc’s eyes are closed, and Fermín’s eyes are suddenly—Fermín is—
Pedro runs. Turns and fucking books it out of the alley, out into a crowd of people that scatters around him like a flock of pigeons. He wants to tell somebody, like—quick, go down there, arrest them for public indecency! But he keeps running. Sprints like he’s about to miss a race start, overshoots his own motorhome and has to backtrack and then when he gets there he’s sweating so badly that he drops his key three times before he can get it open.
By the time he’s thrown himself onto his bed, under the sheets like the fucking boogeyman is after him, his body has slackened some. His stomach is still churning high-seas style, but his dick isn’t hard anymore, so he doesn’t have to touch it. He doesn’t have to think about Fermín’s eyes swinging over to where Pedro had been hiding, maybe-maybe-not spotting him before he could bolt. He doesn’t have to think about Marc’s wet mouth around Fermín’s dick. Most importantly, he doesn’t have to address or name the green thing with teeth in his chest.
