Fic: Extinguished [F1 RPS]
Title: Extinguished
Fandom: F1 RPS
Pairing: Nico Rosberg/Nelson Piquet Jr
Rating: R
Summary: He can’t peel away the memories.
Notes: Some angst for the Queen of Angst, zeraparker! Written for the ‘pervertibles’ square for kink_bingo.
Extinguished
Nico places everything he needs on the coffee table. He kneels on the rug and looks at the items. Plain white paraffin candle. A box of matches. An empty saucer. A box of tissues. The rest of the table is bare, cleared of its usual clutter.
The scene is almost set. He gets to his feet and closes the blinds, draws the curtains. The room isn’t plunged into darkness, of course-not like it was back then-but then it was mid-winter in France and now it’s springtime in Monaco. There’s a gloom, though, and that’ll be enough to trip the memory and make it settle.
He goes back to the table. Sits down on the floor. He reaches for the matches, hears them rattle in the box. There’s only a few left; maybe six or seven. The rough side catches against his fingertips as he pushes the box open, takes out a match. He strikes it, the hiss, the flare, and his eyes widen as the flame bursts. Then he flicks his wrist and the light sputters and dies.
*
Nelson likes the dark. “You can’t see what’s out there.”
“Isn’t that a bad thing?” Nico asks. “Wouldn’t you rather know?”
“No.” Nelson sounds puzzled by the question. “I never want to know.”
“Ignorance is bliss.”
Nelson is quiet for a long moment. “Yeah.” Then there’s the scratch of a match-tip and a spark of light, and Nelson is smiling at him. “Do you have any candles?”
“Sure. Dad keeps them in a drawer in the kitchen. Bring the rest of the matches. And watch your step.” Nico clutches the burning match, holds it in front of him, conscious of the flame eating away at the stick. He feels unsteady in the inky black of the power-cut. Even though he knows every inch of this house, he’s the one who feels his way, who stumbles over the uneven floor.
Nelson walks as if he can see in the dark.
*
Nico strikes another match. The smell of sulphur is strong for a moment, then it fades. He watches the flame burn down, turning his hand to get a steady line of black along the pale splint. Before it reaches halfway, with his free hand he picks up the candle and scrapes the wick upright. He sets the flame to the wick and waits, holds his breath, as wax melts and string scorches and catches and burns.
He holds the candle upright. Blows out the flame on the smoking match.
*
They find a clutch of candles in the drawer and light them one by one, setting them on the terracotta-tiled floor of the kitchen. The breeze is rising, pressing against the windows, whispering down the chimney behind the old-fashioned range. Though the radiators are still ticking as they cool, the residual heat is disappearing faster than he’d thought.
Nico is glad of the illusion of warmth spread by the candles. He and Nelson sit within a half-circle of light. Nelson’s still smiling, like this is a big adventure. Nico’s lived through too many power outages at this house, so for him it’s more of an annoyance. Still, it’s nice to be with someone when it goes dark.
Nelson stretches out one leg, humming softly beneath his breath. His foot inches towards the nearest candle. Suddenly his heel slips and his toes strike forward, and the candle falls, knocked from its balance within a delicate grip of wax. It rolls across the tiles, and Nico squawks in surprise and horror, but it’s okay-really, it’s okay-because Nelson grabs for it, catches up the candle and holds it aloft, flame still burning.
The rim of the candle is battered, sunk on one side. Dribbles of wax run its length. Nelson keeps on smiling, the flame reflected in his eyes. A fresh spurt of wax trembles out of the puddle by the wick. It trickles down onto Nelson’s finger.
“God,” says Nico. “Nels, does that-”
He stops himself. He already knows the answer.
*
Nico tilts the candle, watches the melted wax drop and form rapidly-cooling puddles on the saucer. He makes patterns with it, small blobs, big blobs, letting them merge. He’s patient, waiting until the dip around the wick is filled with clear, trembling wax-fluid. He waits until a skin almost starts to form, the glister becoming opaque, and then he tips it, stripes it over his forearm.
The melted wax hits him. It’s already cool from its fall through the air. It’s not pain that makes him gasp. Not that kind of pain, anyway.
*
Nelson stretches out on the tiles of the kitchen floor. He unbuttons his shirt, inviting Nico’s gaze, his touch. But Nico doesn’t touch. He stares at the candle in Nelson’s hand, at the ribbles of wax down its shaft. White trails, soft and hard, crawl over Nelson’s fingers. It makes them look like stalagmites or stalactites. Nico can never remember which is which.
“C’mon,” Nelson says, still with that same bright smile. He holds out the candle. “Take it.”
“Do you...” Nico can’t bring himself to voice his jealousy, the thought that Nelson has done this before with someone else. “Do you like-that?”
Nelson gazes at him, suddenly serious. “I don’t know. I thought we could try together. Play. Experiment. Learn together.”
“Okay,” Nico says, and takes the candle. He doesn’t want to hurt him. He never wants to hurt Nelson. But wax-play doesn’t hurt. Not if you’re careful. It’s more of a sensation thing, or so Nico thinks.
On his first attempt, he burns Nelson.
*
Nico brings the candle closer. The flame gutters, a thin ribbon of black spooling from it. He measures distances in his mind, calculates, holds the candle a few inches above the inside of his wrist. Tilts the candle. Yelps as the molten wax scorches him. He feels the skin reddening beneath the misshaped glob and knows it’s left a mark, one he’ll have to cover tomorrow with bracelets or a long-sleeved shirt.
It stings, the pain specific, then it spreads to a dull localised ache. He draws in a shuddering breath. His body is tight with need, pain transformed into the agony of desire. He’s never enjoyed this, not the way that Nelson did, but now this is the only thing he can think of to keep the memories alive and real and intense.
Nelson is far away from him these days, an ocean between them, a distance of more than miles and awkward silences. Nico wishes they could reclaim those simple times when the only things that mattered were each other.
*
Nelson tells him it doesn’t matter. It’s just a burn. It’ll fade soon. And then he asks for more, wraps his hand around Nico’s wrist and guides him, striping white splashes and droplets, laughing, hissing occasionally when the hot wax touches somewhere tender-his nipple, his collarbone, against his ribs-and Nico is mesmerised by this, by the flame moving through the air, flickering, dancing, and the way Nelson’s body writhes, part in ticklish delight, part in lustful pleasure.
“You like it,” Nico says. “You really like it.”
“I like you doing it to me,” Nelson says, and laughs again, the sound joyous in the cold space of the kitchen. “It’s good to have an edge. Good needs bad, bad needs good.”
“Dark needs light,” Nico adds, acutely aware of the colour of his hair, of the colour of Nelson’s hair. “Light needs dark.”
Nelson isn’t listening. He grabs Nico’s free hand and presses it against his erection. “That’s what it does for me. That’s what you do to me.”
Nico catches his excitement then, rolls the candle back and forth so it sputters wax over Nelson’s chest, and then he licks his fingers, pinches out the flame-feels the burn for himself-and climbs on top of Nelson.
*
Nico focuses on his task. He drips wax over his arms, over his bare feet, inhales heat and exhales desire. He draws commas and apostrophes and exclamation marks and question marks, all the things they said, all the things they didn’t say.
*
“I love you,” Nelson says afterwards.
Nico looks at him. He’s picking flecks of wax from his skin. His sleek dark hair hangs in his eyes, obscuring his expression. Nico can only see the curve of his lips. The words hang between them, and Nico wishes they were less like wax and more like stone. He wants forever, not a brief impression.
“I love you too,” he says, and it’s smooth and molten and it flows.
Nelson brushes back his hair, looks up. Smiles. There’s fire in his eyes. “I know.”
*
Nico sets the candle down on the saucer, revelling in the sting of trailed heat across his skin. He breathes, watches the flame gutter. He can’t keep doing this. Can’t hold onto a love that burned so bright, that faded, that still smoulders. His flesh is healing, even though he keeps telling himself it still hurts.
He leans forward, scrapes at the cooled wax. Peels it from his skin. Drops it onto the floor. If only everything in life were this simple. Sloughed skin. Renewal.
He stares at the flame, sinks into its intensity until it fills his whole being.
Beyond the light, the darkness creeps.
Fandom: F1 RPS
Pairing: Nico Rosberg/Nelson Piquet Jr
Rating: R
Summary: He can’t peel away the memories.
Notes: Some angst for the Queen of Angst, zeraparker! Written for the ‘pervertibles’ square for kink_bingo.
Extinguished
Nico places everything he needs on the coffee table. He kneels on the rug and looks at the items. Plain white paraffin candle. A box of matches. An empty saucer. A box of tissues. The rest of the table is bare, cleared of its usual clutter.
The scene is almost set. He gets to his feet and closes the blinds, draws the curtains. The room isn’t plunged into darkness, of course-not like it was back then-but then it was mid-winter in France and now it’s springtime in Monaco. There’s a gloom, though, and that’ll be enough to trip the memory and make it settle.
He goes back to the table. Sits down on the floor. He reaches for the matches, hears them rattle in the box. There’s only a few left; maybe six or seven. The rough side catches against his fingertips as he pushes the box open, takes out a match. He strikes it, the hiss, the flare, and his eyes widen as the flame bursts. Then he flicks his wrist and the light sputters and dies.
*
Nelson likes the dark. “You can’t see what’s out there.”
“Isn’t that a bad thing?” Nico asks. “Wouldn’t you rather know?”
“No.” Nelson sounds puzzled by the question. “I never want to know.”
“Ignorance is bliss.”
Nelson is quiet for a long moment. “Yeah.” Then there’s the scratch of a match-tip and a spark of light, and Nelson is smiling at him. “Do you have any candles?”
“Sure. Dad keeps them in a drawer in the kitchen. Bring the rest of the matches. And watch your step.” Nico clutches the burning match, holds it in front of him, conscious of the flame eating away at the stick. He feels unsteady in the inky black of the power-cut. Even though he knows every inch of this house, he’s the one who feels his way, who stumbles over the uneven floor.
Nelson walks as if he can see in the dark.
*
Nico strikes another match. The smell of sulphur is strong for a moment, then it fades. He watches the flame burn down, turning his hand to get a steady line of black along the pale splint. Before it reaches halfway, with his free hand he picks up the candle and scrapes the wick upright. He sets the flame to the wick and waits, holds his breath, as wax melts and string scorches and catches and burns.
He holds the candle upright. Blows out the flame on the smoking match.
*
They find a clutch of candles in the drawer and light them one by one, setting them on the terracotta-tiled floor of the kitchen. The breeze is rising, pressing against the windows, whispering down the chimney behind the old-fashioned range. Though the radiators are still ticking as they cool, the residual heat is disappearing faster than he’d thought.
Nico is glad of the illusion of warmth spread by the candles. He and Nelson sit within a half-circle of light. Nelson’s still smiling, like this is a big adventure. Nico’s lived through too many power outages at this house, so for him it’s more of an annoyance. Still, it’s nice to be with someone when it goes dark.
Nelson stretches out one leg, humming softly beneath his breath. His foot inches towards the nearest candle. Suddenly his heel slips and his toes strike forward, and the candle falls, knocked from its balance within a delicate grip of wax. It rolls across the tiles, and Nico squawks in surprise and horror, but it’s okay-really, it’s okay-because Nelson grabs for it, catches up the candle and holds it aloft, flame still burning.
The rim of the candle is battered, sunk on one side. Dribbles of wax run its length. Nelson keeps on smiling, the flame reflected in his eyes. A fresh spurt of wax trembles out of the puddle by the wick. It trickles down onto Nelson’s finger.
“God,” says Nico. “Nels, does that-”
He stops himself. He already knows the answer.
*
Nico tilts the candle, watches the melted wax drop and form rapidly-cooling puddles on the saucer. He makes patterns with it, small blobs, big blobs, letting them merge. He’s patient, waiting until the dip around the wick is filled with clear, trembling wax-fluid. He waits until a skin almost starts to form, the glister becoming opaque, and then he tips it, stripes it over his forearm.
The melted wax hits him. It’s already cool from its fall through the air. It’s not pain that makes him gasp. Not that kind of pain, anyway.
*
Nelson stretches out on the tiles of the kitchen floor. He unbuttons his shirt, inviting Nico’s gaze, his touch. But Nico doesn’t touch. He stares at the candle in Nelson’s hand, at the ribbles of wax down its shaft. White trails, soft and hard, crawl over Nelson’s fingers. It makes them look like stalagmites or stalactites. Nico can never remember which is which.
“C’mon,” Nelson says, still with that same bright smile. He holds out the candle. “Take it.”
“Do you...” Nico can’t bring himself to voice his jealousy, the thought that Nelson has done this before with someone else. “Do you like-that?”
Nelson gazes at him, suddenly serious. “I don’t know. I thought we could try together. Play. Experiment. Learn together.”
“Okay,” Nico says, and takes the candle. He doesn’t want to hurt him. He never wants to hurt Nelson. But wax-play doesn’t hurt. Not if you’re careful. It’s more of a sensation thing, or so Nico thinks.
On his first attempt, he burns Nelson.
*
Nico brings the candle closer. The flame gutters, a thin ribbon of black spooling from it. He measures distances in his mind, calculates, holds the candle a few inches above the inside of his wrist. Tilts the candle. Yelps as the molten wax scorches him. He feels the skin reddening beneath the misshaped glob and knows it’s left a mark, one he’ll have to cover tomorrow with bracelets or a long-sleeved shirt.
It stings, the pain specific, then it spreads to a dull localised ache. He draws in a shuddering breath. His body is tight with need, pain transformed into the agony of desire. He’s never enjoyed this, not the way that Nelson did, but now this is the only thing he can think of to keep the memories alive and real and intense.
Nelson is far away from him these days, an ocean between them, a distance of more than miles and awkward silences. Nico wishes they could reclaim those simple times when the only things that mattered were each other.
*
Nelson tells him it doesn’t matter. It’s just a burn. It’ll fade soon. And then he asks for more, wraps his hand around Nico’s wrist and guides him, striping white splashes and droplets, laughing, hissing occasionally when the hot wax touches somewhere tender-his nipple, his collarbone, against his ribs-and Nico is mesmerised by this, by the flame moving through the air, flickering, dancing, and the way Nelson’s body writhes, part in ticklish delight, part in lustful pleasure.
“You like it,” Nico says. “You really like it.”
“I like you doing it to me,” Nelson says, and laughs again, the sound joyous in the cold space of the kitchen. “It’s good to have an edge. Good needs bad, bad needs good.”
“Dark needs light,” Nico adds, acutely aware of the colour of his hair, of the colour of Nelson’s hair. “Light needs dark.”
Nelson isn’t listening. He grabs Nico’s free hand and presses it against his erection. “That’s what it does for me. That’s what you do to me.”
Nico catches his excitement then, rolls the candle back and forth so it sputters wax over Nelson’s chest, and then he licks his fingers, pinches out the flame-feels the burn for himself-and climbs on top of Nelson.
*
Nico focuses on his task. He drips wax over his arms, over his bare feet, inhales heat and exhales desire. He draws commas and apostrophes and exclamation marks and question marks, all the things they said, all the things they didn’t say.
*
“I love you,” Nelson says afterwards.
Nico looks at him. He’s picking flecks of wax from his skin. His sleek dark hair hangs in his eyes, obscuring his expression. Nico can only see the curve of his lips. The words hang between them, and Nico wishes they were less like wax and more like stone. He wants forever, not a brief impression.
“I love you too,” he says, and it’s smooth and molten and it flows.
Nelson brushes back his hair, looks up. Smiles. There’s fire in his eyes. “I know.”
*
Nico sets the candle down on the saucer, revelling in the sting of trailed heat across his skin. He breathes, watches the flame gutter. He can’t keep doing this. Can’t hold onto a love that burned so bright, that faded, that still smoulders. His flesh is healing, even though he keeps telling himself it still hurts.
He leans forward, scrapes at the cooled wax. Peels it from his skin. Drops it onto the floor. If only everything in life were this simple. Sloughed skin. Renewal.
He stares at the flame, sinks into its intensity until it fills his whole being.
Beyond the light, the darkness creeps.