Ethical Madness

Title: Equation
Pairing: Felipe(baby) Massa/Rob Smedley
Rating: Black Flag/NC17
Disclaimer: Definitely not real and not meant to be taken as such.
A/N: Written for aitakute as a smallish bday gift. Happy bday, hope you like. I started this on the 9th but only managed to write the first paragraph, I typed the rest on the iPod tonight, so this is unbetad again. Hope it makes sense. Comments are so much addictive love, of course. Enjoy! Beware of typos! I think some might have escaped my wrath unharmed.

Your fingers touch the naked skin of his back and he shivers. He hides his face in the pillow under his head, dark hair spilling over the material.

Moonlight filters through the half-opened curtains, making his skin pale. His body is formed of lights and shadows, curves and angles. There's too much tension in his shoulders and you rub at them absent-mindedly. He's hiding from you again, but his skin welcomes your touch, muscles rippling under your fingers.

You trail paths down his back with fingers and lips. Your breath sighs the words you won't voice against his skin. It's not the right time for words. He won't accept them, not in the state he's in.

Despite the air conditioning, the effects of the Malaysian climate are still felt in the room, drops of perspiration on him that you lick away, that make his skin taste of salt and soap and rain.

During nights such as this one, you feel as if you could take him apart only to put him together again, piece by infinitessimal piece. Under the moonlight, he seems made of silvery liquid, yours to mould as you wish.

Yours.

He depends on you in a way that no other does. He lets you see his fears, his wishes, his each and every feeling. You take every burden off his shoulders, restoring him when he's weak and needy. You're the only one who could take his panic away during the race, when he couldn't see. The rain that you can still taste on him is not his forte. Everyone knows it. You went to him when he was sitting there next to his car with Nicolas, wet, shivering, scared, eyes wide like a child's as he looked at you. The rain soaked you to the bone, but you sat next to him, your shoulder touching his almost casually. He needs the sound of your voice when he's afraid but he needs your touch even more.

In his mind, he's made a fool of himself yet again, the bitter teeth of shame biting down into him. At times like these, the confidence and the will to fight are hidden, buried, feeble. You are the one who restores him. His wife is only a few floors away, but she can't give him what you can, something that has been apparent since you met him. She knows better than to keep him away from you after failed races although the looks she throws you whenever she deigns to look at you make you very aware of exactly how much she hates this arrangement.

She is of no importance to you, apart of what she means to him, but Lucy is. You can taste betrayal on your tongue from time to time. It's common knowledge in the world of Formula One that there's always a price to pay. For many months, whenever you looked into your wife's eyes you wondered whether she thought Minnie had been your price for his relationship with him. That was the only time when you almost gave up on it all. Your mouth was dry and your palms were sweaty as you stood in front of the president's office door, ready to hand in your notice. You couldn't. He'll never know about that moment. There's no need. You can't let him go and he can't let you go. Frankie arrived only a few months afterwards and the guilt started receding, along with the grief, the pain of loss.

You have to protect him, to love him. It's beyond your control, beyond every rule.
He's probably the only equation you'll never be able to solve and you can picture the looks on your ex classmates' faces if they'd know math genius Rob has finally stumbled across a problem without logical solution.

There's no logic to him or to the feelings he wakes in you.

Your fingers pry the sheets away and there's almost no warning when you slip two of them inside him. His body tenses, reacting to the familiar touch of you on him, in him, claiming him as yours. He claws at the pillow as his hips arch off the bed, all of him screaming for more of you as his gasps are muffled by the pillow in which he's still hiding his face. You kiss the small of his back, teeth pressing into skin, nibbling. You're making him moan but you're as out of breath as he is, your fingers enveloped by the heat inside him, burning, hotter than the Malaysian sun. You ache for him, a drop of sweat sliding down from your temple to the curve of your neck, your hair damp and your lips salty with the taste of him.

You kneel between his legs and pull him up to you, his damp back sliding against your damp chest, the darkness of his hair tickling your lips. He cranes his neck and looks at you, eyes wide, black pools of desire, lips wet and parted and you kiss him, an almost graceful dance of tongues. When he's with you like this he's more beautiful than anyone will ever see him, more beautiful than he will ever see himself. He looks perfect, bathed in moonlight, the appearance of a debauched innocent and it gives you so much pleasure that it almost hurts, the knowledge that this is only for your eyes to see, the secret he shares with you alone.

He screams your name when you enter him and you leave the mark of your mouth on his throat as the world disintegrates and you lose yourself in him, numbers exploding behind your eyelids. There is no logic to be found.

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