It was hard not to idolise Ayrton. Everyone did. Does. Three world titles and thirty-four race wins. He’s the person everyone wants to be. Michael included: how could he not? Ayrton is immortal, his name forever written into history and etched into the Championship trophy that will one day be Michael’s. Maybe their names will be next to each other, world champions together.
At least if it all goes to plan, Michael’s name will be on there.
Ayrton’s been watching him. Actually, he’s done more than just watch. Michael is now intimately familiar with the back of Ayrton’s hand, having seen it up close wrapped around the collar of his overalls. He wanted to bite, as if spilling the blood of champions is a way to make him one. That was nine days ago, and Michael wants more.
He wants Ayrton’s attention. It’s as simple as that: he wants to prove himself to this champion, that he will be another like him. That they’re more similar than Ayrton is willing to admit because there’s nothing either of them wouldn’t do to win their deserved title. Titles, because Ayrton was never content with only winning one and Michael knows he won’t be.
Michael knows they’re coming: Ayrton knows too.
It’s nice that he’s at home. A podium at home is always special, the fifth of his career. The fifth of many, but it’s only five compared to Ayrton’s seventy. He’s not a god, not yet. Ayrton is. He raises his trophy in the air, listens to the crowd roar his name because this is Germany and he is theirs already. He doesn’t need to prove himself here.
Despite Nigel’s best efforts, Michael isn’t focusing on him with the champagne. He goes straight for Ayrton, as if to force the man to pay attention to him. Look at him, now he’s proved himself, now what does Ayrton think? He liberally soaks him with the sparkling liquid, watches this champion shine in the sun. Gold like the medal that is yet to be Michael’s but Ayrton has thirty-four of them. He’s not the record holder – that’s still Alain, although Michael knows that Ayrton plans to change that soon enough – but Michael wants that record for himself. He wants all of the records. If he wins everything, Ayrton will have no choice but to acknowledge him.
When Ayrton slips away, grabbing his trophy and his champagne and leaving the podium, Nigel pulls him onto the top step, some words about how it’ll be his soon enough coming from his mouth. Michael knows that, he doesn’t need to be told (not that he would complain if it was coming from Ayrton). Still he grins, looking down at the crowds calling his name like a prayer. He is not yet a god, but to his people, he is already a legend.
In the press conference, Michael is frowning. It’s not fair: Riccardo didn’t even manage to finish the race – he spun off on his own – but still Ayrton is praising him. It should be him. “I didn’t really expect second—third place,” He can feel Ayrton’s glare on him at those words, as if he’s claiming Ayrton’s podium spot for himself. He should. Take it from him, take from him, take everything and make himself into a world champion.
He’s happy with third. With the state of the race, the state of the car, the fact he managed to podium is impressive on its own. But Michael still wants more: he doesn’t think he’ll ever stop wanting more.
“You didn’t get second.” Ayrton corners him when they’re released from the press conference. It reminds him a little bit of testing here days ago. Michael backed into a corner, Ayrton keeping him there. He’s not trapped but he could be – maybe he wants to be.
“No.”
“So why did you say that?” Truthfully, it was just a slip of the tongue, his brain not really processing the English words until it was too late, but maybe it’s fun to rile Ayrton up a little.
“I think I deserved it.” It’s never about deserving: Michael deserves this though.
“You didn’t get it.” Ayrton snaps, “It’s not about deserving. Maybe you’ll understand that better when you win, Michael.” The sentence should sting, Michael thinks, and it would. If not for one word: ‘when’.
“When I win?”
“Oh come on, you know that you will win. It’s only a matter of time.” He looks so confident. Maybe Michael can defend his actions if he says he’s still thrumming with adrenaline from the race. It’s a reversal of the situation from the previous week because it’s Michael’s hand holding tightly to the collar of Ayrton’s race suit, the material bunched in his fist, blood red.
He kisses him but it’s less of a kiss and more like Michael trying to take everything. He wants it all, anything to make him a world champion. Ayrton will give it to him; if he doesn’t, Michael will take it. For the briefest moment, Ayrton doesn’t reciprocate and Michael feels like he’s crashing, the car out of control and spinning out out out. But then there’s a harsh bite on his lower lip, blood beading to the surface. He’ll let Ayrton take this: Michael is still ahead of him in the championship, still closer to their shared goal than Ayrton is. Still has more podiums than the other at this point in the season.
At this moment, Michael is winning.
“You’re very brave, aren’t you?” The words are mumbled against his lips, Ayrton’s breath cooling against his wet lips.
“Not like you.”
“No, of course not.” Ayrton grins, “You’re a whole different kind of person, Michael. A whole different kind of champion.” He shivers; he can’t help it. The words stoke the fire that’s already burning, the desperation to become exactly the champion that Ayrton wants him to be.
One of his hands comes around to grip Michael’s waist. He feels small. Insignificant almost, even though he knows he’s not. Not to Formula One and not to Ayrton, if the way he holds him like this is anything to go by.
He feels like one of Ayrton’s trophies, numerous as they are, precious and important and deserving of everything that happens. Something worth something to Ayrton. It’s all that Michael wants at this moment. He belongs to Ayrton in the same way that every racing driver belongs this sport, belongs to the champions that own it. But Michael belongs to Ayrton, he will be his race winner and his champion.
Michael wants everything. He’ll beg if he has to: he’ll do anything to get what he wants. Whatever it takes. “Please, Ayrton, I want—”
“Shh, I know.” Ayrton pulls back and Michael feels bereft, untethered with the loss of contact, however brief it is. Very few men are ever holy, fewer still manage to become divine. The sun casts a golden halo around Ayrton’s head, light beaming through the window. “I know, Michael, you want everything.” There’s a familiar spark of hunger in Ayrton’s eyes, one Michael has seen before, reflected in the mirror and sparkling in the deep brown of the other man’s irises.
During testing, Ayrton’s hand was up around the collar of his race suit, up next to his throat. Then, Michael wanted to bite. Now, Ayrton’s hands are lower, one still cradling his waist and the other creeping lower still, cupping him through the fireproofs. Michael doesn’t know where he wants the hands more. He just needs Ayrton to continue touching him.
There are few things that Michael craves so desperately: a win, a championship, to prove himself. But this is something entirely different. He’s not sure yet, if this is better – he doesn’t have the championships that they both know he will have – but for right now, it is excellent. Delightful.
Ayrton looks at him like he looks at the crowd and the trophies that he sees so often. He looks at Michael like he’s a prize and a challenge in one. Something to have and something to beat. Worthy. Michael wants nothing more than to be good enough.
Germany is always special but Michael doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to look at the Hockenheimring the same way after this. Although Michael doesn’t think he’ll be able to look at Formula One the same way. Not after Ayrton.
Hunger is an integral part of being an F1 driver. Passion, hunger, desperation, it all comes together to form a beautiful cocktail of want. Solely with the goal of winning one prize. Michael won’t win the championship this season: with the way things are going, Nigel will win the title in Hungary and Riccardo won’t be able to do anything about it. No doubt the DNF today was devastating for him. Michael doesn’t care; he’s now seven points behind second place. And besides, there are more pressing things to win right now.
Like Ayrton.
“You’re good, Michael, so good.” The words come out as a whisper, almost a prayer, reverent and unexpected from someone like Ayrton. Because Michael knows he’s good, but he’s not good like Ayrton, not a legend and not a god. Not yet.
Michael just shakes his head, keeping his lips pressed tightly closed because he is not going to moan loudly like he wants to. They’re still in the paddock, they’re right next to the press room, Michael isn’t sure if Nigel is still around. But at the same time, he can’t really bring himself to care. All of Ayrton’s focus is on him, all of Michael’s focus is on Ayrton.
Ayrton has two centimetres on him and Michael has never been more aware of them as he is now. He wants Ayrton’s hand back around his throat, he wants his hands everywhere, he just craves the touch. The grin on Ayrton’s face is so delighted that Michael can’t help but reciprocate, even if he doesn’t know why. And then Ayrton’s knee is nudging Michael’s legs apart, pressing firmly against him in his race suit and Michael can’t stifle the moan this time, it’s ripped out of him. His smile widens and then Michael can’t see it anymore because he’s dropped his head forward to rest on Ayrton’s shoulder.
The pressure is firm, steady, not moving or changing, just constant. Intense. Like winning must be.
“Not here, hm?” Ayrton mumbles. His breath ruffles the short hairs at the back of Michael’s neck and they stand on end. He’s so affected. Maybe dangerously so but right now, he can’t bring himself to care.
And besides, he’s sure anyone would be affected by being this close to Ayrton Senna, Formula One’s god. Michael wants to be selfish; he wants this all to himself. He wants everything, Ayrton and the championship. He presses his forehead harder into Ayrton’s shoulder in an attempt at nodding.
If he burrows his way into Ayrton’s skin, will he figure out what makes the man a champion? Will he be able to take it for himself? Will this make Michael a champion too?
He lets Ayrton lead him away from the press room, away from people who could take him from Michael. Ayrton is not someone to be kept but for now Michael will get to have him. Or, more accurately, Ayrton will get to have Michael.
If the driver thinks it’s strange for Ayrton Senna and Michael Schumacher to be taking a taxi back to the hotel together after the race, he doesn’t show it. Michael wonders if this will be splashed across the front of the tabloids tomorrow. Rumours about him joining McLaren, or rumours about what their evening was like. What Ayrton wants with Germany’s rising star. He almost wants them to speculate because he knows they won’t get close.
Ayrton doesn’t touch him again, not in the car nor on the way to the hotel room. Ayrton’s hotel room. An intimate place that Michael knows few people have been – Prost has, he’s almost sure he was the last, Michael would love to know what he thinks of this – and he gets to join that list.
Germany is special, racing in Germany is always special but he thinks Ayrton has irreversibly changed the Hockenheimring for him.
Brazil is special too.
Ayrton is looking at him like he looks at the crowd from the top step of the podium, like Michael’s adoration is something he’s owed. Something he deserves. And Michael can’t bring himself to disagree. He’s never been religious but some things deserve to be revered. Besides, if he can figure out exactly what makes Ayrton like that, he can take it for himself. Michael wants Ayrton but more so, he wants to win.
He'll do whatever it takes to win. They both know that. When the door swings shut behind him, Michael drops to his knees with a quiet thud against the carpet, looking up at Ayrton like he’s done so many times in his life already. This is different.
“Good.” Ayrton beams: Michael isn’t sure if he’s talking to him or about the situation in general. He could be talking about the race, Michael wouldn’t put it past him to be so teasing. Michael looks up at him through his eyelashes, a picture of innocence ready to be ruined. “This is what you want, yes?” He looks down at him, brown eyes drilling a hole in his skull as if Ayrton can unlock the secrets, unlock the real reason Michael is here because he knows it’s not only for worship. Pilgrims do not act like their destination is still a challenge, like they still have something to prove. Michael does: they both know it.
One of the most important parts of motorsport is how they’re all working for the same goal. All driving the cars with the intention of becoming like the gods from years past. The only difference is how they get there. If Michael has to kneel to become a champion, if he has to play games like this to come out on top, he will do what it takes.
“Is this what you wanted?” Michael’s voice is barely above a whisper, a sly little grin on his face because he knows.
Ayrton smirks back, “No, it’s what I deserve.”
Michael doesn’t disagree but hearing it said so blatantly makes him shiver. Gods are worshipped and idols are revered. The confidence is delightful: Michael wants to choke on it, wants Ayrton’s hand back around his throat because then he might understand. He moves again, tilting forward slightly but Ayrton’s hand in his hair stops him. He pulls slightly, it stings and Michael’s eyes water. Shakily, he looks back up to meet Ayrton’s eyes. Ayrton’s smile widens impossibly at the sight of Michael’s tears. This is what he wanted.
“What do you want, Michael?” This is unexpected. He came here for a reason, of course, he came here with the goal of understanding what makes a world champion. But for Ayrton to be asking him? Michael doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know whether he should say. He looks away, shakes his head slightly. “You want the championship? The wins, the glory, the worship?” Ayrton asks and now Michael can’t look at him because he’s seen right through him, Michael feels like he’s been stripped bare, as if his ribcage has been pulled open and Ayrton can see his desire nestled next to his swiftly beating heart. “You want to be like me.”
At least this he can agree with. Michael nods. “I want to win.”
“I know you do,” Michael still won’t—can’t look at Ayrton, even though his hand is still gripping his hair tightly, but he can feel the man’s smile, “You won’t be like me,” Michael’s breath stutters, his stomach plummets, “You’re better, you’ll be better.” No, that’s not right. Michael knows he’ll win, knows he’ll be good. But better than Ayrton? Is that what he wants?
Michael wants to be a god, to be idolised and revered and worshipped. He wants to be their saviour but does he want to be more than Ayrton? What would happen when Michael wins?
The hand in his hair tugs him up slightly and Michael stumbles back to his feet. Now he stands almost equal with Ayrton and it feels… strange. Not exactly wrong, but not quite right either. This is not something he deserves yet.
Ayrton takes his hand, gently, and maybe this is the first time he’s seemed so human. “Not yet, mouse, but you’ll be great.” The nickname makes Michael shiver. He’s good, he’ll be great and Ayrton believes in him. But at the same time, Michael is not there yet. It’s thrilling to know that he has the endorsement of this god to get him there.
He’s led to the bed, Ayrton’s bed, neatly made and untouched by the revelations that Michael has been having today. He tumbles back into it easily, looking towards Ayrton’s silhouette against the window, outlined in gold. Like a trophy, a prize to be won, something to hold and to have over everyone else. Not Michael’s though.
He bites down firmly on his lip to stop any noise escaping when Ayrton strips off his shirt. He’s so affected. Dangerously so. Clearly Ayrton can see that from the smirk he directs towards Michael. It sends a rush of adrenaline through him, like a podium or a good qualifying session, like a win must be.
Then Ayrton comes over and Michael wasn’t ready for it but he doubts he ever would’ve been. He straddles him, hovering just over where Michael’s dick is beginning to take interest, grinning at him lazily. “You wanted this, didn’t you, mouse.” It’s not even a question because they both know the answer. He rests his weight down fully and smirks at Michael. All of a sudden, there’s a hand on his throat, not squeezing, not gripping, just… holding. “I could see it, pet, you weren’t as… unnoticeable as you thought you were.” Testing, several days ago. Clearly it’s not just been weighing on Michael’s mind.
One finger presses roughly under Michael’s jaw, tilting his head back further so his neck bends back further. He can see the curtain’s shadows cast on the ceiling, he can see the headboard behind him, he can see Ayrton. The last is the only thing he wants to focus on. From the pressure of Ayrton straddling him, the pressure of his hand on Michael’s throat, the all-encompassing nature of him, it’s not like he has much choice.
“You’re going to be good for me.” Not a question, a command. It’s said so casually that it’s almost like being told to pit, a simple instruction that leaves no room for argument. A simple instruction that, if followed, will get Michael to the goal he craves so desperately.
He nods anyway, looking up at Ayrton adoringly, tears beginning to pool in the corners of his eyes. Michael doesn’t think he’s ever felt this needy, but it’s a feeling that’s been simmering away under his skin since the testing session. A feeling that only Ayrton and the desire for the championship has managed to pull out of him.
Ayrton’s hand is pressing lightly against Michael’s growing bulge and he smirks down at him, “Do you think they could all see it, how desperate you were? Are.” He seems like a lion in some respects, Michael doesn’t think that Ayrton would look strange at all with blood dripping from his teeth, the bodies of his rivals scattered around him. “On the podium, looking down at your people, do you think they saw it?” He grinds his palm down hard and Michael gasps. It’s so much, it’s everything. Michael wants everything.
He can’t even form words to answer him, unable to nod because Ayrton’s hand is still around his throat and driving him insane. Michael just has to hope that Ayrton can discern what he wants from his expression. It’s a strange feeling, being at the mercy of another. Michael can’t say he doesn’t enjoy it though; maybe that’s just Ayrton.
“I’m going fuck you, pet, and you’re going to be good for me.” It’s not a question this time. Ayrton’s hands move off him, pulling back and now Michael’s drifting, untethered and unmoored. He whines, pathetically. It turns into a gasp when Ayrton strips himself of his trousers too and he stands naked and beautiful in front of Michael. “Come on now, Michael, you too.”
Distantly, Michael is aware he must look too eager, too desperate for this – but Ayrton has already seen that, what difference does it make – as he pulls his shirt over his head and pushes down his pants and trousers in one go. He’s left, sprawled out and naked, in the middle of Ayrton’s bed, flushed as red as Ayrton’s fireproofs. He looks pathetic. “Beautiful.” Ayrton says and it’s jarringly sincere.
Michael has never been self-conscious of the way he looks but he can’t help but notice the differences between himself and Ayrton. Ayrton is so much broader than Michael, muscle built over now seven years in Formula One compared to Michael’s eleven months. Michael wants to bite him, just a little bit. The success seems to pour off the man in waves and Michael wants a part of it.
They’re both still warm from the race, adrenaline still flowing freely, mixed in with the desperate want simmering in Michael’s veins. Michael gasps when Ayrton touches him, trailing a finger from his lips, down his chest, down further, a fleeting touch over his cock and Michael can’t supress the gasp he lets out. Ayrton smirks. “Please.” It’s more of a whine than a word but he can see that Ayrton understands. He missed his opportunity to bite but this is so much better.
The finger trails lower.
Michael squeezes his eyes shut at the first probe of Ayrton’s finger at his hole. It’s unfamiliar. He’s done this to himself, sure, in his hotel room, alone. Never with another person. Never with someone like Ayrton. “You’re okay, pet. I’ve got you.” Something in him relaxes at the words and Ayrton’s second finger goes in easier than the first.
Michael’s eyes are still squeezed shut but his mouth is open now, desperate moans filling the room. Ayrton seems delighted. All Michael wants to do is please him. The lube – Michael has no idea where it came from but he’s past the point of having the braincells to care – is sticky on his thighs, sparkling a little like champagne.
He wonders if, if he could get close enough to bite, Ayrton tastes like champagne.
The fingers disappear and then there’s the blunt head of Ayrton’s cock pressing firmly against his hole. Michael’s eyes fly open, green eyes meeting brown as Ayrton presses forward, sliding in smoothly. There are tears pooling in the corners of his eyes and Ayrton looks a little concerned but Michael just shakes his head. It’s so much but it’s good. Delightful even, this is exactly what he wanted.
“Perfect, mouse.” Not even words, basically a growl. The praise slips from Ayrton’s lips almost unbidden and Michael preens. “You’re so good for me.”
“For you.” He mumbles, still staring straight into Ayrton’s eyes. Still trying to take the success he so desperately wants.
Ayrton grins. He waits barely a moment – racing drivers and patience are two things that do not go together – before pulling out. Michael whines needily at the loss. Maybe he shouldn’t have bothered because just as quickly as he pulled out, he thrusts back in, punching a pathetic moan out of Michael.
His pace is as fast as he drives. A maddening rhythm that leaves Michael panting and desperate for more. His arms bulge with the exertion of holding onto Michael and he wants to bite him, wants to sink his teeth in and never let go, to be able to keep a piece of Ayrton forever.
And then the hand is back around Michael’s throat. The very thing he wanted, the grip loose but still there, a presence as much as the man in front of him, holding him. It’s not quite gentle but it’s not rough either. Not cruel. Michael no longer feels so untethered. “Pretty.” Ayrton mutters, more to himself than Michael but he hears anyway.
This is not quite the approval he wants from Ayrton, but it’s a start. He can progress from here.
His head is tilted further back so he can no longer see Ayrton, just the light on the ceiling spilling through the curtains, casting everything in gold. It’s beautiful. Like this, his breathing is just slightly more strained, like it would be after running or at the end of a particularly gruelling race. It’s thrilling.
Ayrton is everywhere, his hand around his throat, his cock still moving rapidly inside of Michael. He can feel everything. He can see very little though. It’s not quite enough but he’ll settle for this because Ayrton is all encompassing and it’s not like he can focus on much else.
He’s so big. Of course his cock is big, that must be a side effect of world champions. His hand is big where it spans his throat too. He’s trying – and failing, Michael can at least tell that – to be normal about this. But how can he be normal when Ayrton Senna is fucking him?
There’s a pressure building steadily, bubbling like adrenaline or a bottle of champagne. Ayrton’s pace seems to have got quicker, the same intensity building for him too. “Are you gonna come for me, pet?” He mutters and Michael desperately wants to see the expression on his face when he comes but his head is still tilted back. He tries to nod anyway, the movement stilted and jerky. Ayrton chuckles softly.
Michael comes with a shout. They both knew it was coming but to come untouched, the first time he’s actually been fucked by anyone? It’s unexpected but he can clearly feel Ayrton’s delight. “You’re so good for me.” For Ayrton, for no one else. This is for him and him alone.
He whines with sensitivity as Ayrton continues fucking him, his grips tightening minutely on Michael’s throat. Ayrton is a lot quieter when he comes, just a small exhale, tension releasing. His hand loosens and then slips away entirely. He all but collapses forward, blanketing Michael. He’s heavy but Michael doesn’t mind. He feels… protected. Valued and that’s all he wants to be.
Far too soon, Ayrton moves, getting up and pulling out. Michael hisses at the sensitivity and even more so at the feeling of Ayrton’s come dripping out of him. It’s intense. Ayrton disappears, and Michael feels unanchored.
Then there are hands, gentle hands, gentler than they have been, carefully cleaning him up, stroking away the tears and cleaning away the dried come on his stomach. It’s so tender. Michael feels adored: this must be what winning will feel like.
Ayrton is still warm where he curls up next to him, this time just holding Michael gently, no heat in his actions or his words, just an unexpected softness.
A little while later, when he’s less out of it, Ayrton starts speaking, “Was that what you wanted? You were so good for me, mouse.”
Michael wants to nod, but at the same time, that doesn’t feel like enough. Ayrton has given him so much, Michael has taken so much from him. “It was incredible.” His voice is a little scratchy and hoarse but they have two weeks until Hungary. It’ll be fine.
“I’m glad.” There are no more words, nothing more to say.
Michael isn’t sure how much time has passed since the race ended but the sun is sitting heavy and low in the sky, lazy golden light spilling through the window. Ayrton looks holy, like an angel or a saint. By now, Michael knows he’s neither of those things, he’s more. Worse but more. There’s a certain intensity about him that Michael desperately craves and envies at the same time, it’s delightful.
“This won’t make you a champion.” Ayrton says the words out into the room, not looking at Michael. “I can’t give you everything.” It’s as if he hasn’t been paying attention. The gold of the room seems to dull slightly.
“I don’t want you to.”
Now Ayrton looks at him, an indescribable expression on his face, “I know. You’re good, Michael. You’ll be brilliant. Better than me, better than Alain,” There’s something in Ayrton’s voice when he says his former teammate’s name, Michael can’t figure it out, “Better than any of us. But you’re not there yet.”
“Neither’s the car.”
“You can’t rely solely on the car.” Michael knows that, he doesn’t need to be told, “You will win, Michael, but not yet.” Ayrton only seems to be repeating himself because Michael knows. He knows he can win, he knows Ayrton believes in him, just like his entire country does.
The words don’t feel entirely truthful, as if there’s something Ayrton, even after all of this, is keeping from him. “I know. I have to.” As much as he needs to breathe, Michael needs to win his title. Titles.
Ayrton regards him, then nods. “There are worse drivers than you that have won that title. There are good ones that never did. You have to take what you want.”
“Have I not proved that I’ll do that?” Michael’s accent is thicker now, this is his home country and he will be their champion. “I took from you, didn’t I?”
“In France?” Michael didn’t take from Ayrton in France. In the end, they both lost out.
So it was the other point in the season, “In Brazil.” They won’t talk about, Michael can see even now that they still won’t talk about it.
“Of course.”
No more words. Michael knows what’s coming, Ayrton knows too. It’s only a matter of time.
He will not become like Ayrton, he has seen what he wants, he has taken what he wants. No, Michael will be better. Will be incredible, will be a legend.
When Michael wins, he hopes Ayrton will be watching.