Archive of Our Own

3-5 SEPTEMBER, 1971

THE TEMPLE OF SPEED, MONZA, ITALY

Forecast: CHANCE OF RAIN

The third day of 1971’s wet September finds Theon rationing cigarettes from atop a splintery throne. He’s making preparations for what he presumes will be a long night, to be spent in the company of his new ‘friends.’ 

The effort is doomed, really. The Team Surtees motorhome broke down on the motorway (again) so there’ll be no daring team rescue any time soon— still, Theon’s doing what he can to endear the room in his favor. It’s not much. His Italian is middling. 

Despite his spasmic attempts, or perhaps because of them, Theon’s down to two stalwart Gold Imperials by the hour of Robb Stark’s surprise arrival.

Their silent estrangement evaporates instantly, years of mutual illegibility drying to a crisp. Because Theon would recognize the shape of Robb shaking out his damp auburn curls anywhere. He’s not the only one with eagle-eyes: in the heart of Monza, crowning on a race weekend? They shoot you on sight if you’re not a Tifosi. The local coppers— Theon’s new chums— are hardly heretics, some of them grizzled mustachioed men which only makes their dawning fawning all the more comic, how they tremble when Robb shakes their cracked hands. Jowls flapping like the prettiest virgin in town is peeling off her clothes. 

Personally, Theon doubts Robb Stark is a virgin. He’s engaged to be married, isn’t he? Really, Theon thinks, biting his lip viciously so he doesn’t laugh, Robb’s baby Jesus act is on par with Theon’s Italian. Doesn’t matter, though. In a room so eager to love him, Robb Stark doesn’t need the black stallion of Ferrari prancing on his plain brown leathers. Robb simpers the way he did in last week’s Autosport Weekly (TAG Heuer timepiece conspicuously placed) and La polizia all suck in fat wet breaths, the omnipresent cloud of tobacco smoke losing its gentle wheeling rhythm in this new air of divine surprise. 

Theon would roll his eyes, if his heart wasn’t beating out of his chest.

As sweat gathers along his hairline, a smile plays on his lips. Theon is a smiley guy, always has been, he knows them as well as he knows the Lotus Elan he built from the kit when he was 16. Not all smiles are nice, Theon doesn’t even go up for nice, the point is just that— like the gearbox in his homemade spitfire— smiles come in six different gears.

Case in point: the tiny twitch at the edge of Robb Stark’s rose of a mouth? It’s late on the brakes. A fake smile, baptismal blessing for the baby-faced rookie, the one who’d gone so pale at sight of boxes on boxes of condoms that Theon figured him for a fag right away. In contrast, the older of the fuzz had watched the condoms waterfalling from every orifice of Theon’s car with a certain smugness. Dirty bastards (no doubt they’d pocketed the lot for their wives and mistresses and friend’s cheeky daughters), and yet! Those same worldly men are just now gazing at Robb with no less worship than the teenager amidst them. Theon spreads his long legs forward, closing his eyes. He’s seen enough. A grin slashes his face in half.

Forza, Forza, Forza! is still echoing when they’re (eventually) set free, Theon struggling into his Perfecto. The black leather is butter-soft and it doesn’t usually fight him but his arms are brittle, they think they’re stuck behind his back still. It’s always a spiky feeling when Theon sees a pair of handcuffs coming at him, and it takes him a while to shrug the cloud off. 

Once attired, Theon jams his last cigarette in his mouth. He pats his pockets— and oh, isn’t this interesting? After all that fuss. They’ve only helped themselves to his matches. Condoms and matches. Wild nights forthcoming? Theon laughs and smooths down his unruly hair. The bloody Pope should spontaneously appear when you’re robbed this close to Rome, he muses aloud.

“He’s probably writing his homily,” Robb says mildly— cracking his knuckles, having scribbled fifty odd signatures. There’d even been a toddler produced, who Robb had dutifully kissed. To add insult to injury, Robb also apparently has Theon’s passport to give back. When he does so, he fixes his blue eyes on Theon like two ice spears. “Condoms, Theon. Into Italy. On a Saint’s Day?” 

And here’s my homily, Theon thinks with amusement. “Today they confiscate, tomorrow they’re our best customers,” he leers. “You’ll ask Saint Papa to forgive my soul, won’t you, Ferrari? It’s just that bringing thems in my contract and everything.”

Theon can feel Robb holding himself back from snorting even through the muggy mist. Intrigued, he digs in further, for some reason badly wanting to tickle a punchy sound out from Robb’s throat.

That, or knot my hands in his thick red hair. Theon clears his throat, pushing past that. “It’s no good you being cross with me, Stark. We’ll argue and your engineers will get caught up in our divorce, won’t know what to do with themselves if they can’t come to me for rubbers. They’ll start sodomizing local girls left and right. Hardly a good image for us.”

Robb scoffs— closer, Theon thinks, edging himself. “Good image? You’ve only got the Durex logo plastered all over your garage, Greyjoy.”

“All wrapped up, there’s no car safer than Surtees!” Theon boasts. “A true family vehicle, ours.”

“'Course. Silly me. Thinking condoms might affect the 'having a family' bit.”

“Au contraire, sweet Romeo. For a happy family it’s a simple recipe: weekly romance with the wife, nightly rubbers with the mistress— and with the pretty lads. I wager our friends in uniform will be teaching their pet boy so tonight. The 24 hours he’s in for, he could run Le Mans.”

Instead of smiling, Robb frowns. “Theon,” he admonishes. In the dark, Theon can’t tell if he’s blushing or not.

“What? They’re bloody Romans, Robbie! They only invented buggering.”

“You’re mad as a hatter. Truly.”

Is that what I am? Theon slaps his own cheek to bring the corners of his smile down.

By then they’ve come to the Surtees motorhome (arrived, he notes gratefully, if not he’d be bunking in the garage tonight) which is parked to one end of the pit lane. Robb’s got a good kilometer and a half to reach his fancy get-up at the Ferrari end of things. Theon’s not even thanked him yet. Despite that lapse, this is somehow the most they’ve spoken to one another in… what, two years? Motorsport is a funny set-up, Theon accepts this. Fast as fury and ceaseless as a stream, there’s never a moment to look about. One day, you’re dreaming of the big leagues. The next? You’re capsized, valiantly battling the current. There’s no time to take in whose around you unless they’re written up on a board at the end of a lap.

“Had dinner?” Theon asks, leaning against the large black motorhome. Black Beauty they called it— for about five minutes. The Black Bra fits better. “We’ve always got sandwiches. Spaghetti, if there’s anything hot. With, well, you’d know about this: mozzarella.” Theon exaggerates the pronunciation the way the team all had when adventurous Margo had served it up for them the first time. Provincial lads, they hadn’t seen such a novelty before. No doubt Ferrari hospitality are old hands at continental cuisines.

“Wish I could,” Robb says, his tone blankly polite. “I’m on the Tyrell diet. They think it gives us some competitive edge.” 

Theon nods, the back of his neck warm. “Il Predestinato doesn’t survive on mortal food. I should’ve known.” Despite this setback, Theon’s not ready to leave it yet. Pulling his near-empty pack out, Theon thrusts it into Robb’s hands. “I’ve seen Loras smoking, haven’t I? Have my last, heaven knows they only sell those hideous skinnies here. Though you’ll have to get someone else to light it for you, love, seeing as I’ve just had my matchbook mugged.”

Finally, Theon earns his laugh. It’s a deeper sound than Theon remembers it being. He’s grown up, then. Theon can’t tell what Robb’s thinking well enough to make any sort of joke, so he doesn’t say anything. The heat of their joined hands steams in the night air— right up until Robb squeezes and draws away. 

“Thanks. I’ll save it to celebrate a win,” he says. 

That’s such a fucking… polite thing to say that Theon’s jaw immediately tightens. Teeth halfway to baring. It’s a good thing Robb’s already walking off, waving lazily back without turning, or Theon really might have lunged over to bite him. To celebrate a win..? Theon stands there dumbly even after Robb’s disappeared into the night mist, off to the other end of the pit lane.

To celebrate. A win. Robb was always a spoiled little shit, Theon remembers. Always kind, never thoughtful. Theon’s a bitch and a brat but at least he considers other people.

It’s only later in the bright lights of the Black Bra that Theon chances to glance down at the passport Robb had returned, shoved into his hands after it was taken from Theon for ‘safekeeping’… he looks down at it and blinks.

What on—?

There on the brown cover is a black scrawl. Robb’s scrawl, Theon remembers, his circles all skinny ovals. A messy signature, must’ve done it while he was doing all the autographs earlier. Somehow the passport got slipped in.

A signature. For a fan. Is that what I am? Theon wonders. Is that— all he is?

Black gold stains the Gold Imperials logo painted on the Lotus car, though the Lotus mechanics hardly notice in all the tizzy. Some rear anti-roll bar gone AWOL and Mario barking bearishly about understeer, cursing in three languages, hopping up and down like a frog. Typical F1 Saturday. Theon’s pretty sure the rod they’re missing is up Andretti’s arse, but he’s not one to offer the competition complementary help. Instead, he steals the pack of fags from Mario’s arse pocket while he’s distracted. 

Theon’s here because he’s misplaced his matches. He’s set his qualifying lap already and it was a bloody wowzer so he’s floating, grinning madly as he skips to the other side of the Lotus garage. Patrek’s side, that’d be. Over the pit wall, Theon glimpses Tyrell green and Ferrari red streaking across the circuit. Father Christmas come early.

“‘Lo,” a crouched Patrek greets absently when Theon looms over him. He’s inspecting something diligently, but spares a look over his shoulder. “And where were youse last night, Greyjoy? I came over to the Bosom and couldn’t find a single nipple to twist.”

“Was at the station getting a frisking,” Theon admits, still smiling, one of Mario’s fags between his lips. “Blackshirts couldn’t keep their hands off my contraband. My knickers, either.”

Patrek laughs appropriately, dusting his hands off and distractedly accepting a cig, offering Theon his lighter while listing off instructions for the pit crew. That accomplished, he leans towards Theon’s hand. Closes his eyes, what with the flame flickering so near to his face. Patrek’s long eyelashes tinge orange for the barest breath before he pulls away to enjoy his first drag— the sort to enjoy that one best.

Together, they walk towards Theon’s garage.

“The station, was it? Story of your life, my boy. Did they confiscate all your party favors again, and leave nothing for me?”

Theon shrugs. “Might have. Back on the Bra.”

“O-ho,” Patrek smarms. “Is that an invitation, gorgeous?”

“You invite yourself over,” Theon says, rolling his eyes. Then he brightens. “I’ll tell you who showed up without an invite. Ferrari Robbie, last night. Showed up to pry me free of the bobbies’ clutches. Not bad of him, was that?”

Patrek hums. “Il Predestinato himself? Never seen him slumming it with us garagistes before. Why’d you think he did that?”

Theon pretends he’s not considered it. It’s no trouble to play the airhead, that’s already the sort of pal Patrek likes him to be when the fancy strikes them. When the wine is flowing free and Theon’s in a kittenish mood. Patrek’s something of a school headmaster in the bedroom, but he’s lazy about it— always accepts Theon’s demurring without much inquisition. 

Theon enjoys it that way. No purpose digging in with a fellow driver. The thing with Patrek is they’re always friendly on Saturdays: nipping into one another’s pits, pissing away Warsteiner-fuelled nights with the rest of the lads in the roach coach. But then Sunday horizons, and Theon’s drifting sideways on the track until Patrek’s flank is green from torn-up grass, the both of them cursing one another while fans bray in delight at the sight of man fighting machine. 

Today’s Saturday, thankfully. Theon did absolute ten-tenths in qualifying. The engineers will go on playing their mind games, but Theon’s done his part. There’s no need to treat Theon’s deliverance a la Robb Stark’s benevolence like... well. Like anything, really.

All a wash before Sunday.

“I’m only beating the boys off, aren’t I?” Theon says in delayed answer to Patrek’s question. He strikes a pose in his dark blue racing suit; not a half bad color on him. “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, they all ask me.”

“Do they?” Patrek plays along, jostling Theon who’s miming a thrust and a moan. “Darling, they’re wanting your pretty French letters. Not a long look into your pretty dark eyes.”

“Better the French letter than the French disease!”

While wildly gesturing about, Theon knocks into some harried member of a pit crew. Theon doesn’t know the poor cretin but he gives him a rude hand gesture that should translate. Can’t help himself, a Grand Prix weekend does it for him, the speed and the savage splendor gets him randy and racy. Glorious down to the smell of grease, right on the line and what he lives for. 11 races on three continents and they all feel like home. Even last night in his cell, Theon’s biggest worry was what if they keep me past qualifying? It’s the worst feeling in the world, when the pooch gets screwed in some silly way. When you never even get a chance.

Theon shakes this off. It wasn’t so. Robb came in and whatever Patrek thinks, it was a good hand. Theon’s free to think of it however he likes. Not all drivers would do that for one another. It’s true Team Surtees aren’t exactly putting up a fight to the Scuderia this season, that Robb’s the one who can save a ciggie for when he wins while Theon’s got to get his where he can, if he can.  Even when they were boys, Robb was so quick on his grey Yamaha. They all called him Grey Wind. 

Robb was chasing Theon back then, Theon with his Commando because he was old enough for the necessary license. At the end of their grand battles, sweating like they’d just been roaring over the hills of Monaco, they’d stick their bikes in the gravel. Lay like sardines on a flat patch of green. Dream about being in Formula One.

They’re in it, now. And they never speak. The Formula One effect.

Theon scowls before kicking Patrek who’s bent inside Theon’s cockpit, inspecting brakes or whatever. “Oi!” he barks. “Don’t you go looking up my car’s skirts, Lotus, just because your old hag’s everyone’s game. My girl’s a bloody lady.”

A lady? someone yells out from nearby. They sure let a tramp drive her! Everyone laughs— Theon too. He and Patrek share one more cigarette, thumbing through Theon’s qualifying numbers, and then part. Theon might see Patrek in the night (might not) but Sunday looms and nobody is friends on Sunday. When you race, you do it alone. That’s just Formula One: you’re ships in the night on shredded tyres. They’ll call you lucky to have even that.

“There’s my lucky lad! Did your full send, boy!” 

Dagmer tells Theon so, as they’re packing up. The paddock is emptying. Brouhaha receding, that’s always the worst, when it’s over. WRM’s long gone— it’s been a dismal season for them, the Lion and the Hound generally quick to run off and sulk— along with the merry men of BWB-Ford. Team Surtees is late on the exit because, well, Theon’s full send required celebrating. He’s sticky with champagne and the spit of slobbery kisses.

“Fourth,” Theon says with a grin. They both know. It bears repeating, after the years they’ve had. “Season’s best, was it? Merry fucking Christmas, Clefty.”

“A shave off the podium! Ah, but who needs that? You know what ya are, lad.”

Theon smiles sideways, flicking a foil square up and back into his palm. “Who needs it,” he agrees. I’d bloody like it, he thinks privily. Fourth is nothing to sneeze at, especially considering Jaime Lannister was up his arsehole for five laps. Still, Theon can’t help but feel he’d be a fiercer hero than some who are up on the podium race after race. Loras Tyrell, pretty but predictable, throwing roses to the girls. Jackie Stewart, Sir Jackie Stewart, unfuckable as the goddamn Queen. Robbie’s a dream to look at but he’s something of a socialist when he wins, always upping the team, the sponsors, the parents, the missus, Paul Newman’s television special. Theon could hurl.

Tyrell, Ferrari, another Ferrari. Green smothered by red, like a car crash gone off the road. Formula 1 has their fair share of those, but they don’t all end with champagne showers. Even though he’s currently jubilant, Theon still shudders when a memory of a half-dead Domeric, hanging from one convulsing arm, flashes into his mind. That incident wasn’t but two months ago— it could’ve been me, every driver was thinking as they watched the med-copter off. Engineers triple-checking everything, Bernie coming around every garage to fingerwag.

By Sunday, they lined up in their cars like dutiful soldiers. Why worry? God loves me best.

The truth is, racing drivers have hard-ons for Lady Death’s tarty knickers. None of them want to marry her; doesn’t change that they’re all desperate to fuck her. Always eager to perform— or, they’d best be, lest their sponsors sprout spider legs. It’s nothing to sneeze at, what teams do to keep sponsors happy. Lotus fobs theirs off with so much wine they can’t walk straight the next day. The orange boneheads at McLaren march about suited and booted in starched Hugo Boss. BWB-Ford blasts rock music so loud, hash smoke ghosting out from cracks in the doors. And that’s just Theon’s paddock neighbors.

Wex finds Theon prior to departure, stuck like glue to Big Walder. Big’s some plucky superfan turned garage boy. Once, Theon caught him filching Margo’s grand brassiere from the wash line, and even though the boy insisted it was a dare, he’s not come around Theon alone since. Smart lad.

They place a patch in Theon’s hand. A single look at it and the quip in Theon’s throat dies. 

“Local sponsor for Canada,” Big Walder says, all in one breath. “Sir says you’ve got to get it stitched on before we get there.” Wex elbows his friend, who jumps, before realizing. “Oh, and grand drive! Really grand. Top stuff, Mister Theon.”

“You’re mute but you’re not blind,” Theon allows, pleased. He shoves the patch into his pocket. “When we get in the Durex next, bring me a box.”

“What, a whole one?” Big Walder asks, flabbergasted.

Theon cuffs him upside the head. “If you know what’s good for you, pantysniffer.”

In his pocket, the itchy stitched patch dulls the satisfaction of Theon’s successful hunt. Local sponsors are an odd breed. They have peculiar ideas of getting their money’s worth. This particular set can live without a podium— in exchange for a few first class orgasms out of him. Eh. Better the nonce you know. It’s fine. He’s got time to prepare.

Still glowing, Dagmer eyes Theon. “Planning to see that hairdresser o'yours in Canadia, lad?”

“Kyra.” Theon doesn’t say yes. He likes her, they all do, how her soft breasts sit on their shoulders as she snip snip snips. Bubblegum pop pop pops. They had full coitus, last time in Toronto. Him with her. Patrek with her mother.

Theon runs his hands through his hair. His shoulders feel stiff, uncooperative. Almost like a pair of handcuffs just clicked. 

17-19 SEPTEMBER, 1971

MOSPORT INTERNATIONAL RACEWAY, ONTARIO, CANADA

Forecast: CLOUDY — HIGH WINDS

Theon answers the ringing phone where it’s situated in the Left Cup of the Bra, practically in the bathroom. He licks the last of the spaghetti sauce from his lips, flicking the ends of his new haircut before pulling off the receiver.

“Team Surtees, bare east of Toronto. You’ve reached Lord Greyjoy, how might I hurt you?”

“Hello. Please tell Roose his grandfather’s just died.”

“Oh, again? It’s been a while since the last time. Missed me, gorgeous?”

It’s always a woman’s voice when these calls come. It took a couple go-arounds for Theon to realize it was always the same woman’s voice— her familiarity lost in the shock of Roose having blood relations, wasn’t simply spawned in a dreary Transylvanian castle (Domeric, a known test tube child, hardly counts). By the fifth death in the family, Theon caught a clue. 

She scoffs. “Why don’t you choke on a Kipling’s country slice, darling?”

“How’d you know those are my favorite?” True. They’re burly and thick, reminiscent of the loaves his Mum would cook on his boyhood birthdays, a rare treat instead of their usual moldy bread. “And give your kitty my love.”

As if on cue, a cat meows in the background. The woman hangs up then; Theon imagines a witch stirring her pots. Frog legs and pointy hats and striped stockings, white pussycat sat primly on a stool. The more he fantasizes, the less he knows.

Knocking at the office, a soft come in beckons his entrance— fidgeting, Theon tucks a black lock behind his ear. He doesn’t love how jittery Roose’s cramped office makes him feel. He’s never laughed while in there, certainly not since Domeric’s accident.

“Sorry to have to pass this on, sir. Your grandfather’s just died.”

Pale grey eyes blink slowly. Lizardly.

“It’s terrible, I can’t imagine,” Theon tries. He doesn’t know why he pretends, only that he has to. “Sometimes it’s better. When you see the tragic lives these older sorts go on in…”

“It is, yes. Better.”

Theon nods respectfully. “I’ll leave you to it then, sir.”

Roose seems to consider that. He sets downs the documents he was rustling so Theon can hear the fax machine beeping, the distant rhythm of Strawberry Fields playing outside. His own breathing.

“I wouldn’t mind some company, actually.”

Oh, wouldn’t you? Theon wishes he could say that surprises him. When the ghost calls started, Theon noticed an… increase. After Domeric’s accident? He anticipated it. Better the nonce you know. By now, Theon knows how to close the door without making a sound.

At Saturday qualifying, there’s a crash.

(The first since Domeric’s tangle in those burning branches, bare but for him jerking like in The Exorcist.)

It happens about the dupe hairpin turn. Theon’s on the exit, which means he sees the fireball but in scant seconds, he’s already too far to help. His chest is hammering so fast he doesn’t even slow, simply flies into the pit and leaps out.

“Who—?” he demands, from the first person he sees.

“It’s Benfred Tallhart, we think. In the March Ford.” A backup driver, Theon gut sinks to hear. When you’d done a hundred Grand Prixs it’s one thing, dying, disfiguring— when you’re green as summer grass, it’s a goddamn waste. 

“Is he alright?” Theon asks fruitlessly.

The grim reaper arrives in the paddock with Maester Luwin, helicopter roaring above. Theon takes one look at the paddock doctor, the best bloody neurosurgeon in the world, and he knows. Ben’ll be taken to the hospital so they can tell the family he took last rites, no doubt. The clock ticks and resets. It could’ve been me, Theon thinks.

Only, when he looks about to see the omen’s spread? Everyone’s staring back at him.

By eveningfall, they’re all in the roach coach drinking the free Warsteiner beer, which is light-years preferable to lying in bed perseverating. And Theon’s drinking like a prince, a fish, a fishly prince of the Seven Seas. Why? Well, he’s done his homework, that’s why. Roose summoned Theon into the office— like a dog, he thought, smiling painfully— but it was only to rustle among papers before producing two pages for Theon’s viewing pleasure.

A jumble of numbers to most. Theon deciphered them easily. They said one thing: Benfred had DNF’ed both Grand Prixs he’d started, crashing on the final laps thanks to oversteer. 

What a fucking dunce, Theon laughed. In Roose’s office! It was that unbelievable.

Now, Theon’s drinking with the best of them; no better way to herald death than to celebrate life. There’s foil squares falling from his pockets (a little death to make you feel alive, is his lead line tonight) which earlier he’d even gone to the trouble of demonstrating. Kenny Szymanski and Lyn Corbray had arrived wearing the widow’s uniforms of black dresses and high heels (gorgeous bastards both, as like to show up to the garage in greasy track suits as they were to your Nan’s funeral in leopard-print catsuits) so it was nothing to flip up their skirts, roll a rubber up their flopping cocks. Do a helicopter spin. Everyone roared, desperate for distraction.

That set the tone for the night.

Soon enough the fancier lads walk in— for once not hobnobbing in Bernie’s Bus. A flash of auburn curls burns the edge of Theon’s vision and tugs his heart, it does. It happened after Domeric, too, all of them coming together to cuddle like baby bears. Look around with wide eyes, same expression as fresh meat at a faerie club; will it hurt? When it happens to me?

Except, that camaraderie hadn’t lasted 24 hours. So what’s the point? Theon sucks down his stout before going to see a man about a dog. Falls halfway onto Patrek, on his return, less steady than he thought. His head on his pal’s thigh and Patrek’s big hand petting him sweet-like. 

S’nice. His hair being stroked. Distantly, Theon recognizes he’s smiling. He wonders if he’s red. He asks Patrek discreetly, face hidden behind his white Stetson. They’re not in America but they’re close enough that Theon can dress cowboy without Bernie being able to do a damn thing, wag his finger, no funny hats in the pit lane!

Patrek only looks down with a fondness. “Blushing like a bride. And that’s not the only red thing about you, my boy.” Patrek smiles, the tease, always one to find a good mood at bottle’s bottom. “Your adorable accent is making an appearance.”

“You fucking liar!” he gasps, bolting up, cowboy hat dropping heavily to the floor. Oh, fuck, he thinks, hearing himself. Everyone’s laughing.

“Am I lying, lads?”  

“Nope. He’s positively Bolshevik,” Sevenstreams Tom agrees, the traitor. He strums his guitar and whistles the first notes of the Red bloody Anthem. Winks, after Theon throws a pillow in his general direction. With all the smoke and booze and everyone with long hair, it’s hard to tell who’s who. Indeed, Theon only knows Thoros by voice when the man asks, “what else’s red about you, Rosa? Your knickers?”

Lift your skirt up for the lads! someone drunkenly calls out. Ura! another voice, deeper, chimes in. Theon reaches for his necklace instinctively, the iron crucifix pendant, shoves it between his teeth so he can bite down, make his grin less manic.

Perhaps sensing Theon’s low distress, Patrek runs a hand up his spine.

“Oi! Theon’s not red anywhere but the nipples.” Mallister smirks devilishly and adds, “though they did let him drive the car for Stalin when he visited Theon’s two-chicken town. A great honor!”

Theon sees red but chooses to ignore it, instead sinking to Patrek’s bait in this room that’s rapidly losing interest. “I was nine when he came, darling. It was my brother who got to play chauffeur.”

Patrek misses an uncharacteristic step. “Oh? I didn’t know you had a brother. Thought it was just… a younger sister?”

“Older. The slag.”

Theon would’ve left it at that, really, but just then a chair is pulled up beside the loveseat they’re on. Red sits in it. Theon’s jaw tightens.

“Stark!” Patrek exclaims in delight, “did you—”

Robb doesn’t bother playing polite. “Theon’s got two brothers, actually,” he says, utterly without ceremony. “They died in the war.”

For a moment, there’s silence. Patrek’s hand falls from Theon’s body. 

“Oh... mate. I didn’t know. And to think all this time I’ve been spinning tales about my father fighting the Ruskies…”

It’s slimy, what stretches across Theon’s face. Less stiff upper lip, more slug in second gear. Thankfully, nobody notices when you’re only going that much faster than you should be. Theon reaches down for his Stetson, putting it back on slowly.

“No need, mate. Long time ago. Now I really do need another beer, though.” 

Theon expects Patrek to go and fetch one out of guilt. He doesn’t. Not after Robb presses his nearly full bottle into Theon’s knee.

“Have it,” Robb says dismissively. “I’m not drinking. Part of the diet.”

“Forced itself on you, did it?” Theon asks.

“We were toasting Ben. It was only right.”

At the sound of the name, a chorus of to Ben! rings out, and everyone dutifully drinks. Theon can’t exactly abstain. So he fixes his lips around the bottleneck still wet from Robb’s mouth and drinks. Deeply.

The conversation ends, thankfully. Theon doesn’t look at Patrek or Robb for the rest of the dying party.

Theon’s not ten steps into the brisk air, head full of pins and crystals, when a slam and a shout follow him.

He debates with himself for a second... before turning around and shoving the warm body into the metal of the motorhome. 

“Theon’s brothers who died in the war?” he repeats accusingly. He can hear the fullness of his accent rearing up, revealed by drunkenness and anger, its edges jagged from all the violent uprooting and replanting. For once, he doesn’t bother disguising it. “What, there wasn’t enough death in the air?”

Robb blinks his big blue eyes like he’s no clue what Theon’s on about. Theon makes an enraged noise, turning away. “What business to anyone is my family?”

“Pardon me for thinking your good mate would know the first thing about you,” Robb says. And that’s not true, Robb did not think so, but what Robb’s doing isn’t really lying. He’s making a point. Not sneaky— Theon invented that game.

“Virtuous,” he spits. “Find your bed, Ferrari. Big one tomorrow.”

“Theon. Please.”

There’s a ‘comforting’ hand on his shoulder and Theon wants to want to throw it over. He doesn’t want to be touched anymore, not when he can still feel Kyra’s warm thighs on him, Roose in the back of his throat, a mile away from Theon, that’s where Robb belongs—

“Come with me,” Robb says softly. Then he’s pulling Theon, not truly forcing but Theon’s not got much choice in the matter, either. Robb’s stronger now. Tall. Theon used to tower over him, his forest of curls that Theon can’t see the top of anymore. He stumbles along, drunk, yes, yet perhaps the smallest bit willing…

He catches himself just as they’re rounding on Robb’s digs. 

“Oh, piss off.”

“For the love of—”

“Like I don’t know what your crew thinks of garagistes like me, that… Rolly and Randy, or—”

“Rollam and Raynald? They look at you nastily? Well, I dunno about that, but they’re not here now. So behave and get inside, why don’t you?” 

Theon deploys offense to cover up his gasp. “You think I don’t have food in my Bra, you shit?”

“What?”

He waves his arms around, only Robb’s steady hands on his back keeping him upright. “What’ve you got in there, whore d'oeuvres? Or is it— rabbit food? Carrots and grass for Il Predestinato?”

“Your Italian’s total shit,” Robb says, rather rudely. He’s laughing though. “The team doesn’t call me that. Nor do they starve me. Remind again what you’ve got? Cold sandwiches and plain mozzarella?”

“Bugger yourself, bastard! It’s prawn cocktails and Berni Inn steaks every night. Margo gives me a sip of sherry, too, when I’m good.”

When’s that? Never? Theon expects Robb to joke. Instead, Robb’s hold on his hips stiffens, lifting more forcefully on the final step. “Who’s Margo?”

“Your mum’s fancy woman,” Theon retorts.

“Har har.”

Theon tells himself the reasons he’s talking shite but not stalking off is he still wants to know where Robb got off about Rodrik and Maron, earlier. Only Theon can talk shite about his dead brothers. Robb doesn’t even know what it’s like, your brothers being dead, and you still being alive but alone. Theon was only nine. Skinny and full of smiles. He was ten when he met Robb, by then his own family was done with him or whatever, it was the price of his traitor father’s excommunication from the Party, family scattering. Then came a bouncing riot of auburn— for whatever good it was, Theon started smiling again. 

“Theon.” Robb’s summoning him back to the present. Theon’s unruly as water so Robb pins him to the counter. That’s the likely cause and effect, anyway. Theon tugs at his own hair, feeling insane. 

“What?” he says. Surely it’s all a big joke. 

Robb frowns. His hands skim Theon’s exposed collar bones where his shirt’s undone. “You’re cold.”

“You’re the cold one, Stark.”

“S’what you always told me,” Robb agrees faintly. He’s running a hand up Theon’s flank. Being benevolent again, being kind. Using his jutting hips to keep Theon pinned. 

Theon doesn’t want to whine, so he bites his lip. You pitiful slut, he chastises himself— hands digging into Robb’s broad shoulders. “What?” he tries again, harsher now. “Why…”

Robb’s two fingers trap the hanging iron, pressing it into Theon’s constellations of freckles. “Why—?”

“Why’d you say all that rot about Rodrik and Maron?” Theon forces himself to ask. It comes out reedy, up in the clouds.

The corner of Robb’s lip quirks.

“Sorry. I never do the right thing with you, do I? You’re so… moody. Only then I see you wearing the same necklace you always have and think, what? That’s still my old friend Theon, isn’t he?”

“it’s Lord Greyjoy to you,” Theon says imperiously— unable to reckon with the rest.

“Seigneur Greyjoy.”

Theon could say: fool, ce n'est pas le Québec, if you can catch that, your French is twice as bad as my Italian. The hot breath on his bare skin, though… it’s hard. To think. He fidgets the smallest bit, and that’s when it all goes truly off the rails because while Robb’s rubbing him tenderly, he’s also pinning Theon. With his body. Which Theon’s struggling against, and he— oh, rivers and quivers, there’s a chub.

Theon’s got a generous fist full of Robb’s curls before he can think, mouth a useless pool of drool. He’s fucked twice in two days yet somehow, he’s still hungry. It feels so right. When Robb balances their foreheads together, Theon gets lost in his blistering blue.

“I’m setting the wrong tone, aren’t I?” Robb coos indulgently. Doesn’t move away, though— the only difference is how serious his face grows. “I wanted to tell you that it’s wasn’t your fault. You know? Nobody blames you.”

Suddenly, Theon feels like he’s been slapped.

“I know it wasn’t my fault,” he sneers. If it’s a sin to speak ill of the dead, Theon must be telling the truth because nobody smites him when he says, “Ben was an idiot, a cock-up. He lost his rears and oversteered. What was I meant to do?”

“Well. Don’t go around crowing about it.”

“What’s there to crow about? Thought I wasn’t to blame? And like you can talk! With that fat arse rooster tail up in Monza, we were all right behind you. Jesus Christ, almost crashed us a dozen times.”

“You weren’t going to crash,” Robb dismisses. Their noses glance when he leans in even closer. “I was watching you in my mirrors. You were so close, Theon. I thought…”

“Thought what?”

Robb grins bashfully. “Though you’d be on the podium next to me. I really did, darling.”

Oh, God. Theon tries to shove him away, tries hard but he’s dizzy as a disco and his chest’s a warm frenzy. “Fuck off. You shit. You absolute shit.” He’s chubbing up now, too. Inevitable, really; like back when they were boys beneath a rickety ceiling fan, stripping off their grass stained leathers and ribbing one another. Not even the firecrotch jokes dampened Robb in those hopeful moments. Theon always noticed, until one day he realized he wasn’t noticing but watching. Now, he’s coming up matching against Robb’s stiffy, only Robb’s not blushing and sliding under covers.

“Do you remember your dogleg gearbox?” Robb asks, suddenly. “In that Lotus you had from the kit, the one we built together. Gold, wasn’t it? We all rated Lotus cars back then.” Despite the overstimulation, Theon could swear he feels Robb’s teeth scrape against his neck when he says, “you still do.”

Theon shakes his head— eyes fluttering shut. “No-no. It wasn’t a dogleg…”

“Was too. You couldn’t stop, remember?” Robb shifts so his arms are more fully encasing Theon ribcage, their hips shifting too. “You’d start and just have to keep going.”

“What’s it matter?” Theon says in harsh agitation; Are we having it off or what? “You’ve done damn well for yourself, Ferrari. Grey wind, remember?”

“Funny. You’re the only one who ever called me that. Remember?”

Theon can’t answer. He’s twisting and writhing, drunk in more ways than one. Usually pressing a woody against someone is a means to shutting them up but Robb’s so chatty, Theon’s unsure, confused what this game even is… 

Robb, in contrast, only grows more playful. “Theonnn,” he teases, voice low and deep. “You’re trembling. Why?”

“Cause I haven’t had a smoke all day,” he snaps, blaming his uselessness somewhere. “I fucking need one. Patrek’s got—”

“What? Mallister?” Robb interrupts. There’s disbelief in his voice. Empty space blooms between them. “Mallister’s who you’re thinking about right now?”

Theon shifts awkwardly. “He’s my friend.”

“He’s your fucking fixer, Theon!” If Robb cursing wasn’t enough of a shock, the sudden cold air touching Theon’s body does it. He stumbles, stomach tying into knots. Robb’s pale as ice in the moonlight, and distant as the moon, too. “I don’t even know why I bother sometimes.”

Theon’s fists ball. “Well— don’t. Go and win your race, you bloody child, and— fuck off!”

Theon storms out finally, rage animating him. And Theon knows anger, he’s boiling with it, but anger isn’t what’s reflected on Robb’s face when Theon makes the fatal mistake of looking back. He looks... lost. If Theon stumbles as a result, he catches himself before he falls. Wakes from the dream in time to right himself, sulking his way past the roach coach and back into the amorphous black of night.

Curses cast in the dead hours have a way of coming true. Robb wins the next day’s Grand Prix, golden boy drowning in sun and champagne, a podium Theon doesn’t even watch. Doesn’t even bother. His lungs fill with water the way they always do when he refuses to cry; his father used to beat him when he cried so Theon stopped doing it but it didn’t stop the feeling, couldn’t stop the tide. Where Theon grew up there was so much salt in the air that it never snowed, so the first time he saw snowflakes it felt magic, flakes nestling in a blaze of red curls which made Theon smile for the first time in ages. I started and I never stopped, he thinks, a life like a dogleg gearbox, always going, sweeping him along. For the briefest time it had felt like a game. This snapping wolf cub on his heels, chasing in circles and laughing into the sun.

But now, it’s something darker chasing him. Choking him at night. It’s why he can’t sit still. Or— be alone.

Theon goes to Benfred’s funeral, same as everyone, though he only stays long enough as Roose deems necessary. Nobody fucks Theon that day at all yet he’s more sore than ever, snapping at Wex when the lad delivers him a box of Durex condoms to hawk about his mates for the following weekend. 

Theon can’t afford to stay down. The G-force will kill him. He plasters a good mood on when he’s in the roach coach next, when he drags Patrek into the Bra and gives himself to sucking his friend’s cock such that pain lances through his jaw through the entirety of the next day’s interviews. He descends on Margo’s mozzarella balls with a new vigor.

He tries everything. For some reason, none of it settles him.

Whatever he does to distract himself from the flooded ruins of the dam he once kept Robb Stark behind, it’s all as quenching as drinking saltwater. Only really fuels the emptiness.

1-3 OCTOBER, 1971

WATKINS GLEN INTERNATIONAL, NY, USA

Forecast: SUN & WIND

Whoever Theon expected, is not who he finds when he swings his door open. George Harrison, maybe. If Theon had to guess a Ferrari driver, he’d have bet on being greeted by Jackie Stew’s corduroy fisherman cap, or Clay Reggazzoni in his bucket hat, thick mustache hanging over pink lips, twat with a twat for a face— anyone other than Robb.

Robb Stark, with a perfectly regular Ferrari flat cap in his hands.

The man requires no invitation. He’s cramping the doorway in a blink, so close Theon can smell his breath. Robb has perfect teeth, it’s undeniable, no, it’s the breath that gives him away as human. As someone who eats and licks and—

“Afternoon.” He pulls the door shut, raising Theon’s neck hairs. 

“Lost?” Theon manages to quip, halfway clever.

“Just where I want to be, actually. Anyone else home?”

Theon clicks his tongue. It’s answer enough.

“We’re alone. Good.” Pausing, Robb chuckles. A sound inexplicably bright. “Sorry about the other night. I was on one, I reckon. You know, I didn’t understand what you were hammering on about, some bra you kept saying? I thought you meant a girl you had in Canada. But it’s this motorhome. Raynald told me everyone calls it that. Is that true?” When Theon nods slowly, Robb raises a brow— as if, what, he’s surprised by Theon’s reticence? Even though Theon’s currently being accosted?

“So? You’ve not got a girl in Canada?”

Theon shrugs. “There’s a girl. A hairdresser.”

“Mallister’s got a hairdresser too, I heard.”

“The same. She likes men. Couple at once, sometimes.”

“Evidently. I’ve heard she’ll turn you out with her tits out.”

“Oi,” Theon scolds, in the rhythm now. “Who taught you about tits?”

“I reckon you did, Greyjoy. Which, speaking of, am here for a reason. I need a few of your, hm, mementos. Can you spare some?”

It takes a few moments to understand what Robb’s even asking for. Indeed, Theon’s on the verge of fetching a sandwich for Robb when it dawns on him.

“Durex? For you?” Theon blurts, incredulous. The request is just… outrageous. And when he’s on the verge of a championship? Then, as if it’s the matter at hand, “why on earth didn’t you send one of your boys? You can’t be seen—”

“With you?” Robb clicks his tongue. “Think I can, to be honest. And I hear it’s an exchange, so…” reaching around Theon for one of the markers hanging off the corkboard, Robb signs the hat in his hands with efficient flourish. He tips it onto Theon’s head, patting it down once. “No cash, I’m afraid. Like the royal family. Har.”

Theon has it off his head just as fast; it’s harder than surgery, getting his hair right, so he’s not keen to mess with perfection. They’re in America and it’s the final Grand Prix of the season, which, in typical Yank excess, translates to cameras cameras cameras. 

“Isn’t she your fiancée?” Theon asks skeptically. “You’re halfway down the aisle and she doesn’t let you do it in her?”

“Not in so many words. Truth? We had a scare so I went and fetched my mum’s ring.”

Theon snorts— Catelyn must’ve loved that. What’s Robb admitting to, though? It’s a dummy engagement? Or, it’s not the missus he’s meeting up with? Theon makes a strong attempt to act unflustered, if only because he’s morbidly curious.

“So you’re just late on the brakes in general? Bit of a surprise from you, Ferrari.”

“I pull out when I need to. Not my preference. You understand.”

Satan’s sexy beard. “Who is she, then? Or— how many?”

“I’ll take whatever you can spare,” Robb says, avoiding the question neatly. 

Scaring up an accordion of condoms, Theon passes thwm off with clammy hands. Robb studies the packaging before shoving into the brown leather jacket Theon recognizes from Italy. God, how long ago was that? The memory seems ancient. Odd, because Theon feels a bit like a newborn fawn at the moment. Where are his anchors? Robb Stark’s at the wrong end of the pit lane telling Theon he’s playing tennis on his fiancée; Mallister’s caught up with his father, who Theon makes himself scarce in the company of; the season’s coming to an end. It’s unmooring after unmooring.

Robb’s head tilts in consideration of Theon. “Not keeping any for yourself? It’s not like you not to be on the promise.”

“Now I know you’re on the prowl? I wouldn’t dare get in your way.” Still clenching the hat Robb gave him, Theon sucks in his lower lip. Lets it go with a pop. “You shouldn’t go to her empty-handed, you know. Girls like a thing they can hold. Loosens them up.”

“Does it?” Robb asks, amused. “Suppose we’ll see. Thanks, darling. Lost without you.”

(Well. That’s certainly something.)

Theon can’t help but call out after him. Robb stops in the doorway, turning his head but not his body. Inquiring blue eyes blink over his shoulder.

“Stop by when you’re on the way back,” Theon says— he can’t imagine Robb staying out all night when he’s got qualifying tomorrow. Theon used to sneak into Robb’s room back when they were boys, sex sweat still tacky on his body, full of stories to corrupt his Robb with. Robb would hush him, increasingly violently. “I’ll be awake. We can chat.”

Robb only smiles. Tight and lean. Inscrutable as the wink which follows. 

And then he’s gone, but his body heat and breath briefly linger. Proof, Theon decides, absurdly. Years of being ghosts to one another crumble in Robb’s wake, like sandcastles washing away in the rising saltwater tide, Theon left alone once more and asking himself: what? That’s all?

Robb doesn’t come.

There’s not a chance Theon misses a pebble tapping at window glass either, not when he’s awake for hours, ruthlessly tugging at his cock. He starts chafing at some point but he can’t care, not when he can’t sleep for thinking. Shoves his pants off at some point, slapping his wood about before gripping it once more, his moans just louder than they should be. If someone had their ear pressed to the door? Well. 

It only comes to a conclusion when Theon lifts onto his knees, face buried in pillow. Theon rarely plays with his own arse (he’s got Patrek for all that) yet he imagines it, at times. Rocks back and forth to stimulate being fucked, coming with a girlish moan.

It doesn’t soothe him. Only gifts him a frustrated sleep. 

All his efforts are useless, of course, because that’s just his ruddy luck. A suspension failure. Unfixable in the time we’ve got, so sorry, nobody’s fault. Nothing to be done. That reasonableness doesn’t stop Theon throwing his helmet to the ground, breaking it into a million pieces. Wex jumps, making Theon’s stomach knot, so he storms off into the Lotus garage— straight into Lord Jason Mallister. 

Patrek inherited his schoolmaster routine, Theon’s learned since befriending his pal. One look from Daddy dearest and Theon’s smiling. Joking like he walked into the wrong garage, isn’t it the dandiest thing? Nobody fucking laughs, obviously.

Theon slams the door of the motorhome. Margo’s out doing the shopping, Roose away because Domeric’s had some breakthrough in rehabilitation (impossible to tell whether that pleased or disappointed Roose), and Theon’s outburst earlier ensures none of the lads will be coming around him for a few hours, at least.

The Bra’s empty— not even a cold sandwich to nurture Theon in his misery. When he sits on his bunk, he finds Robb’s hat in the mess of his bedding and shoves his face in it before screaming.

Formula One is a sport for cowboys, to put it in words Americans understand.

Nobody races who could be happy at home with a church girl— nobody who doesn’t dream of the open desert. When the sandstorm hits, Theon’s even in his cowboy hat.

Teams don’t ‘support’ one another, in fact they’re all in a constant state of subterfuge. Certain circumstances bring them together though. And it’s infectious, the yelling which starts in the Ferrari garage before the stewards have even limped Robb’s crumpled car into the pits. Such blatant unsportsmanlike behavior as Lannister giving Robb Stark a puncture on the last laps of his championship race, practically handing the title to Loras Tyrell while securing a WRM double podium?

The pit wall rings out as one: To see Ferrari fail, that would be one thing, a treat… but, like this? No, no. Unacceptable! 

Drivers judge each other strangely. 1971’s graduating class were barely boys when Jaime Lannister won his first title— sent his closest opponent into a steel fence where he sat trapped in a blaze for a whole minute, he barely survived, certainly never drove again— but they all watched it happen. To repeat the crime?

What if it was me? they’re all wondering, raging in their own way.

And whatever Theon felt towards Robb’s absence the other day is dwarfed in this monstrous injustice. He finds Robb’s drooping shoulders in the crowd’s clamor, voices raising as officials with their hands spread wide cower beneath the collective vitriol. 

He did it on purpose, we all saw! is whispered (loudly) during the tense podium of Tyrell, Lannister, Clegane. Loras in particular has a sour face on, shaking bare hands before disappearing, wreath and champagne carried by his army of a crew. Lannister and Clegane linger, however, eyeing the crowd that’s building.

Maybe it’s a mob. If it is, Theon’s certainly egging it on. And him knocking into Clegane while tossing a rude epithet at the back of Jaime’s smarmy golden curls isn’t planned per se, but he seizes the opportunity given him anyway. “Happy to suck off your fascist master, mutt?” he asks, grin twisted.

Clegane turns to meet Theon’s insult, poorly hidden bloodlust in his beady eyes. 

“Jealous, gyp? Cause I’m paid for it and you give it away for free?” Theon rips his hand away from Robb’s shoulder, shoving Clegane backwards. Hard. Theon’s cursing in his mother tongue by the time they’re ripped apart, he only really remembers the curses, phrases like your mother fucked a dog to make you!

“Fucking cunt,” he spits— unsmiling for once. When Theon finds Robb again he can’t help himself, shakes him, squeezing his cheeks, says it’s all pure shit. Mallister appears too, locked in heated conversation with Andretti.

“Fuck me, mate,” Patrek says, suspiciously bright. “We’re only always calling them Ferrari International Aid! Where the bloody hell were they today? Asleep at the stopwatch?”

Theon’s protectiveness over Robb balloons. For some reason Theon’s got this sense that Robb’s numb only for now, that he’ll be alone when it truly hits him, nobody to give him solace or companionship. And Theon can’t stop touching the other man, his hunched posture, his long hair which Theon keeps sweeping to one shoulder. 

Even when Ferrari principal Petter Schetty comes to yank Robb away— the promise of an inquisition clear— Theon’s still loathe to let go. It’s lucky for him that Robb speaks then, voice rough and raw. 

“You’ll come?” Robb asks. Bottomless blue eyes crinkling.

“On your goddamn life,” Theon swears darkly.

Bernie’s Bus is usually a celebrity pit stop, for minor royals and their mistresses to be wined and dined by the Grand Dame of Formula One, Bernie himself. Today, it’s a war room; Ferrari’s bigwigs standing against WRM’s, who’re arguing for the honor of Jaime Lannister. Silent observer Willas Tyrell, family crone on his arm; Randyll Tarly, a menacing two meters tall. Ferguson’s here too, in case Ford engines catch any slander, ever the valiant defender of the garagiste teams who buy instead of build. Lord Jason Mallister— no doubt feeling he owes his old friend Ned Stark this, to look after his boy.

Theon, for one, is shocked by his own rectitude. Does he care about another crown in the Ferrari showcase? No. Not while his own team scrapes for cash year after year, stripping naked and fucking for it, risking ruin for commercial solvency. It’s just… Robbie. He doesn’t want Robb to be alone right now, to drown his sorrows in strange cunt, or even whoever this girl he’s got in New York, showgirl or waitress, some advertising exec. Two months from now Robb’ll have his tail between his legs, begging Cat for the family ring. Again, Theon reminds himself— Robb had so much as admitted that. 

What drove him to that? His father’s death, maybe? Bran’s accident? Or maybe nothing bad at all. His first big win, or a hazy night at a friend’s wedding, sharing a romantic slice of Victoria sponge.

Whatever it was, surely it can’t happen again. 

Above them, Schetty’s raging worse than Attila. We will leave, he vows, fucking dog and pony show, Bernie, nothing but a travelling circus! Stinks of corruption, you will never have Ferrari in this one horse town you call a league ever again!

Everyone knows Bernie would rather die than have Formula One go sans Ferrari. Theon tries to shore Robb up, plucking at his curls and saying, “don’t worry, lad, Schetty will figure it out for you. It’ll all be fixed by the gala.”

Robb looks at him, then. And it breaks Theon’s heart. His smile is so defeated. Not dramatic enough to interrupt the rhythm of the room— only enough so Theon can sense the depth of his blame. Self-blame. Robb’s always been that way, Theon remembers. Always thinking about himself; always blaming himself.

“They can’t fix this. I’ve lost.” Theon opens his mouth to argue, but Robb goes on. “They’ll trade this for more influence over next year's regs. Get, I dunno, Tyrell’s skirt declared illegal. WRM’s floor, probably.”

It’s true, Theon can’t deny it. Another day, he might’ve even been happy to hear it.

Not today, though. “To hell with them, Robbie. Come on, let’s go, this is a farce. I’ll take you out, somewhere you won’t want to kill yourself. It’s a great place, America, the food’s just great. And the women! What do you say, eh?”

“Who’ll go?” Robb asks. He’s staring intently into Theon’s eyes, for some reason, brows furrowed in some mental calculation. “Just us? Or us and… Mallister?”

Theon blinks— not understanding.

“Whatever you like, love. Do you want Patrek there? He’ll come if I ask.”

To that, Robb only grimaces. There’s a determination in it, however, a fire that singes Theon.

“Sure,” Robb says. 

Theon’s utterly defenseless. Can’t say no.

It’s a mistake, Theon knows even during dinner, a disaster, it was like they’d all taken a vow of bloody silence. What next, a vow of chastity? Theon knows well the dirty dive Patrek’s leading them towards. Probably Paddy thinks that because Robb wears red to race he’s a red-blooded man like all the rest. Theon concedes the place has got novelty— there’s a reason it’s on James Hunt’s Naughty Tour of New York, this smoky lounge full of nuns who lose their habits to show their bunny tails— but Robb is a man down. It’s less Gentlemen Prefer Blondes and more Night of the Living Dead, Theon laments while the red velvet ribbon is being parted and they’re entering the Red Sea, door crashing closed behind them.

He knows it’s a mistake. He tries anyway, plying Robb with drinks, dancing. A freckled breast in his hand. Robb rubs it to pebbling yet concedes soon after, Theon dismissing her with a tenner and a smack to her pert bottom. 

“Not a blondes man?” he asks neutrally.

Robb doesn’t deign to answer the question.

“Neither am I, really, but for my oral exams I hardly discriminate.”

Still nothing.

Predictable. Theon moves on, nodding in the direction of Patrek whose legs are spread wide, a defrocked sister on her knees between them. There’s another woman beside him, giving his neck a desperate sort of attention. “See her? She’s one of the Marlboro girls on the grid. Marcia. Her mum was some Spanish countessa before Franco. Her—”

Robb interrupts, no patience for gossip. “So that doesn’t bother you?” 

“Eh, why should it? She’s not some free love lassie, she’s here because she wants to be Lady Mallister. Regain the family fortunes, you know?”

“You’ve no aspirations to be Lady Mallister?”

“Me?” Theon says, laughing. “No, mate. No. That’s not…”

It dawns on Theon that this conversation’s precarious, but he can’t puzzle out the consequences of it with so much gin in him. He rubbed off with boys when he was a lad, of course. They all did. Theon simply never stopped. A mutual taste for cock, Mallister described it as, the first time they had it off together in Adelaide, whinge turned to a wank. Theon saw a dead kangaroo on the walk back. “It’s just a mutual taste for cock. Really.”

Is that true? Theon and Patrek have been for— two years, as it is. Fine, there’s a certain amount of comfort. Theon supposes. Familiarity, the necessary bits for kinkiness…

Now’s no time to hash all that out. Theon never talked to Robb about men anyway, one of those small empty spaces between them that became a canyon, no natural disasters needed, only time and wind. Sure Theon’s talking now but that’s only because Robb’s got larger worries, ones that go deep into the center of the earth, so Theon’s hurling whatever stones he can get his hands on to fill Robb’s abyss. And Robb’s not even looking at him which makes such a confession easier.

When Theon follows his line of sight, though, the apple of Robb’s eyes is still… Patrek. Mallister, Robb calls him. Mallister getting his nipples thumbed by the countessa, which Theon finds strangely irritating. Maybe it’s the vulgarity of her ambition, or maybe it’s the final feather, but nothing feels quite right. Clawing around for the right puzzle piece to fit the evening, Theon slides an arm around Robb’s shoulders and leans close, whispering in his ear like Rasputin.

“You like her tits?” he asks shamelessly. “They all get them done like that in the States. Busty and hanging low, practically water balloons. And the nipples are massive, aren’t they? Hamburger jubblies.”

“They’re fine.” Robb blinks, then corrects himself. “All breasts are fine. I reckon.”

“No argument here, some’s better than none. Really, though, you’ve got no preference? I enjoy the German ones. They’re quite sporty.” Where Theon grew up, tits were either flat or hung down to some auntie’s knobbed knees. Admittedly he went a bit wild, when he was let out into the world. The novelty lingers. “Oh, what of your fiancée? You like hers, surely. How do they look?”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Robb mumbles, shrinking into himself.

“Of course not,” Theon says indulgently. “It’s undignified, I know, but it’s only us boys, what’s the harm? It’ll do you well to think of softer things, love. Or maybe a sterner matron suits you? There’s all sorts of girls here. Not your girl, no, but these ones can work around whatever your Ten Commandments are. Tell me the rules, Robbie. S’it condoms? Hands? No last names, no second helpings?” 

A bolt of lightning strikes Theon just then— the puzzle piece, snapping into place like snowfall on Yule. Revelation shocks Theon so wholly he’s scratching Robb’s scalp without realizing, images blurring in his mind. “Oh. Robbie. Is it watching? Is that what you like? Darling, I can arrange that. Would you like that? All you’d have to do is sit in the chair. Don’t even need to get hard.” Can’t imagine you could, given today’s events.

Theon inwardly does a backflip, when Robb seems to consider it.

“I dunno,” Robb answers finally, glumly. “I don’t want... other people. Around.”

Right. Bugger. Theon’s caught the scent, though, despite that wilted rejection. Aiming for spontaneous but only succeeding at sotto voce, Theon asks, “just us, then?”

In the significant time it takes for Robb to open his baby blues once more, Theon thinks: I’ve got it, haven’t I? And Theon’s so busy regulating his own breathing, he hardly notices how strained Robb’s has become.

“Just us?” he asks. Voice boyish; it reminds Theon to swallow down the ball in his own esophagus. “Or us and… Mallister?”

Again fussing over Patrek. To mask his impatience, Theon shifts. “Whatever you want. I don’t care either way.”

Robb’s eyes flash steel. He sits up, unsmiling. “Alright. Sure.”

It’s a mistake, Theon knows from the moment they alight into Patrek’s swanky hotel room. He guided them here under the harebrained assumption that it’d be neutral ground, somehow. Flat land. 

From the second Theon starts unbuttoning his shirt, Robb’s silent eyes on him the whole nerve-wracking time, it occurs to Theon that maybe there’s no neutral ground. Not between them. Patrek starts fussing immediately, thankfully; he rolls an armchair into the bedroom, a throne for Robb Stark, his only concession to courtesy before getting handsy with Theon’s bared skin, sniffing along his sensitive bits and slathering him in a waterfall of apologies. Patrek always gets like this after his father’s been about and he’s had to treat Theon distantly, horribly, he calls it.

All this attention on Theon’s like ropes around each of his wrists, handcuffing him in opposite directions— just slipping free long enough to get in the shower requires Herculean effort.

So, it’s a mistake. One that’s got Theon blindingly hard. It’s a mistake that’s got him ‘suggesting’ Patrek downwards, replacing nattering with competent sucking. Patrek pushes Theon’s skinny thighs up to lick at his bumhole— bit fruity, Theon wasn’t sure if he’d do that in company. Patrek’s got a greedy mouth, Father bless.

In contrast, Robb Stark’s got naught but eyes on Theon. Those eyes, though. They’re a bloody ocean of emotions. Dark and stormy like Theon’s home before he didn’t have one anymore, sometimes you couldn’t even tell if it was night or day. And Theon’s not sure who’s sucking him deeper, gripping the sheets as if he’ll fall off the earth. Eventually, Theon shoves Patrek off, yanking him across the bed. Arranging him in the position of a man whose back’s against the wall, arms crooked, about to be shot. Cock saluting up in a final patriotic gesture.

“Darling,” Patrek breathes out, squirming needily. “I’m sorry, darling, I was just horrible, I know. Come on then, come on. Let me make it all better.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Theon groans. He’s too worked up, halfway dried hair certainly a clusterfuck. Keeps stealing glances at Robb, not sure what his face is doing any more than he understands Robb’s stone expression. It’s a mistake even when Theon’s spreading his knees wide to sink back onto Patrek’s Durex-clad cock; He rolled it on himself, a product demonstration, Patrek joked, and Theon’s frazzled laugh was scalding, bubbling, a witch brew.

Theon rides Patrek with his heart beating 100 kilometres an hour. He rides him in a mess of a rhythm, all racecar racecar racecar, sharp twists and turns, fast, brutal. Theon can only take so much of Patrek’s blabbered apologies, can only be father confessor saying yes, darling, yes for so long before he’s shoving a hand on Patrek’s mouth— not one of their usual moves. Feels right, though. For some reason, Theon wants Robb to see he’s not just the one getting buggered, laying about like Sleeping Beauty. Theon’s made of stonger stuff than bunnies and pink skin. And maybe he couldn’t tell you where the sun was in the sky if you put a gun to his head, but it doesn’t matter with the way he’s thrusting back and forth, smearing himself between horizons, just can’t stop. Riding Patrek into the fog of pleasure while fucking Robb with his eyes, drool trickling from his mouth… 

Everything jumbles, the closer Theon gets to coming— who’s laughing and who’s crying. What’s love and what’s pure selfish, what feels good and what’s ripping through him like a hurricane, lungs growing tighter and tighter until he’s in the noose and slipping down.

4 OCTOBER, 1971

Forecast: WHEN IT RAINS, IT POURS

Theon fell asleep in a swirling pool of post-race comedown, alcohol, and ill-advised homosexual sex.

He wakes up feeling like he was face down in it all night, drowning in the damn kiddie puddle. Weak and alone as a marooned sailor. Without a second of delay, Theon knows it. That he’s alone.

Not entirely. Never entirely. Patrek remains (snoring to raise La Llorona), but experience foretells Patrek will be useless until the afternoon. Suppose it’s best, Theon tells himself. Sarcasm spiky to match the vinegar collecting inside him. Christ, everything tastes like Margo’s mozzarella gone bad.

In Patrek’s washroom, Theon barely cleans. At times he enjoys wallowing in the whorish state. Who’s here to watch him clench down on the psychic shadow of cum lining his insides? No one who’d judge. 

Outside the bedroom, Theon furiously peruses the limited selection of records Patrek travels with— only three, the ones he can’t live without. Zé Roberto’s ode to the Lotus 72, the car Lotus first produced last season and are still driving with no sign of stopping. Second is Beethoven’s Fifth, of course, Patrek’s public school after all. The third is the soundtrack to some film whose premiere Patrek attended, still raves about it.

Theon places the first in the Panasonic, perfectly pleased to have the Lotus anthem as the soundtrack to his morning. Why not? They all loved Lotus cars as boys— such available, reliable machines. There’s an egg in the small fridge, wonderfully oval beside an angular box of milk. A pan on the gas stove. Why bother cooking, though? Theon’ll call up a lavish meal, charge it to Lord Mallister’s account, he’s rubbing his hands thinking of it—

Of course, it’s when he’s finally settling that the heavens open. That the sainted Robb Stark crashes back into the suite. 

There’s no finesse to it. No Ferrari. The door swings open and red stumbles in true to it’s hue, chaos and fever. Nobody’s entirely immune to fever, which Theon blames for his first reaction being a half-step forward.

He hardens quickly. Iron and bitter stout. “What the hell are you doing?” he hisses.

Robb gapes for a moment, casting his gaze around as though in search. He straightens when he finds nothing; the door slams shut behind him.

“I came back for—”

“For what? For me? Aren’t you bloody generous!”

“Are you completely goddamn crackers, Greyjoy? What do you expect!” Robb says in full frustration. Found his anger, has he? Theon thinks nastily: not exactly the pace of a champion. Robb glares like he’s reading Theon’s mind, baring his freakishly perfect teeth. “Last night. Was the worst night. Of my life.”

“Was it, really?” Theon says caustically. 

“You had to put me through it, didn’t you?”

“And you have to have the last word, don’t you?” Theon throws back. “Theon’s terrible, isn’t he? Never mind he was trying to help. Alright, since that’s how it is, go! Nobody wants you here.”

Robb scoffs at whatever grievous harm he’s just been done. “You know what, Theon? I think you do want me. And it kills you so much you punish me for it.”

“And I’m the one who’s crackers?” When Robb only continues to stare dumbly, Theon sprouts fangs. “You’re such a spoiled little shit. I asked you again and again last night what you wanted, yet somehow I’m to blame for you getting what you got? Fucking— entitled baby!” It’s unfair, Theon deems. All he did was ask. Robb’s the one who said yes, sure. 

“You were forcing my hand and you knew it!” Robb shouts exasperatedly. “I’d just lost the Championship.”

“Your promised glory,” Theon rasps. Even when they were boys, Theon was expected to coddle Robb right along with the rest of the world. Why, because God loves Robb best? Surely God can resurrect Robb without Theon’s assistance. “Half the paddock had bets against you yesterday, did you know? You’re so good, perfect sometimes, but the way you don’t dare cut your corners and expect everyone’ll respect you for it, I mean, you’re fucking— stupendously naïve! Nobody’s paving that road red for you, mate, I wouldn’t even if I could! Never was who you thought, your future best man or whatever. This pseudo-big brother—”

“Sorry, my big brother? You never were.”

Stunned, Theon takes an involuntary step back. Never—? Well. If that’s the way it is, he thinks, fuming. Through a sloping laugh, Theon says, “I never asked to be.”

“You never were,” Robb confidently affirms.

“Marvelous. Maravilhoso! Go, then! To your nice home with your nice wife and whatever brats she makes for you. I’ll be a happy whore in peace.”

Theon expects that to be it. Their famous last words finally had. Robb lingers, however. Hands curled into fists. 

“And that’s enough for you. Really?”

“It’s everything,” Theon seethes resentfully, outraged at being made to say it. “In case you haven’t noticed, Robbie, this is my home. This. The cars, the sex, it’s where I live. It’s who I am.”

“I know all that,” Robb says impatiently.

“Don’t patronize me, arsehole—”

“Try listening, arsehole. Racing is your home, is it?” Throwing an arm out, Robb smacks the needle off the player, ending the looped song. “When people think of motorsport, who do they think of? Lannister, Tyrell, Sir Jackie? And me. From America to that pathetic little police station in Monza. You think, what? That’s got nothing to do with us?”

Theon gapes. Fritzing out. What—?  For once, nothing clever springs from his tongue. 

Robb only grows more sure. He steps into Theon’s space and stares him down. Is it hostile? Aggressive? Not... really. His tongue darts out, wetting his dry lips. “Nobody in Formula One could be happy anywhere else. You told me that. So I’m here, why?”

Brain turned to talc, Theon tells himself: he’s gone mad. He doesn’t understand what Robb’s saying well enough to mock it, deflect it. Theon should shove Robb away so he can breathe but, somehow, he can’t manage. 

“What are you saying?” he demands. “That you planned… something?”

Robb laughs. “You thought we were both here by chance?”

He stutters while trying to deny it. “We haven’t spoken in years,” he insists.

“Two years, right? You tossed me and ran right for Mallister,” Robb says harshly. Agitated, he seizes Theon’s face. It’s gentle enough, though. The hold. Theon’s chest only skips once. “I swore to myself I’d never fucking forgive you. But then, that day in France…”

Robb pulls Theon close enough to taste. Chest heaving. He’s in pain, Theon sees plainly. And he’s not hiding it. “There was so much smoke. All I saw was dark hair and a blue jumpsuit. I know it was Domeric, okay? Obviously. I know that now. And I’m wrecked about him, really, I think about Dom before every race. When I was running, though, I—”

Theon can’t help digging into Robb’s chest. He forces down the building pressure, stodgy as a country slice. Situations like this… they can only understand each other. They’re among the few people who can.

“It wasn’t,” Theon says quietly. “Me.” 

“I know.” Open, Robb’s blue eyes are big as stars. Theon would kill to see his bashful smile right about now, to… “It wasn’t only that. I wanted to come to you a winner. I thought... but then Rollam told me you’d gone and got yourself arrested. There’s so much shit I could help you with. Why’s my help so bad? How else can we ever be together?”

“Enough, Robbie,” Theon pleads.

“No,” Robb says fiercely. And maybe it isn’t enough. Because Robb doesn’t stop.

He crosses the line instead. Seals their dry mouths together in a kiss.

So goddamn entitled, Theon rages internally, even as his arms are wrapping around Robb, one beneath an armpit and the other round his broad shoulder. There’s spit and gunk, years of bitterness between their mouths but it’s impossible not to dig deeper. The taste of iron makes Theon moan— he loves the blood notes, iron and copper and rot, doesn’t matter if it’s blood sausage or the blood heat between a lover’s thighs, it’s all red, marvelous. Like Robb’s hair tangled in Theon’s fist, or the sound of his moans rattling through Theon’s skull. 

“Jesus, Theon,” Robb whines out. He’s dying for more, Theon can tell from how desperately their bodies are pressing together, chubs banging into one another’s hips in an attempt at introduction… and Theon wants it that badly, too.

“Bedroom, darling, come on,” Theon urges breathily…

Only to stop dead against the door. “Wait! Patrek, he’s—”

Mallister, Robb always calls him. Robb’s demeanor shifts. Discernibly. 

Theon’s already feeling so aroused and consumed that when Robb barges past him like a bent detective in a copper program, Theon experiences the slightest twinge of— anticipation? He should go in there and throw himself in front of Patrek’s prone body. Patrek’s been a good pal for two years, they’ve shared everything from Cokes to cunts, though never in front of Patrek’s father.

The image of Lord Jason Mallister prompts the same shortage as Roose Bolton’s face does. Two fathers with two golden sons, always grinding Theon into paste. Suddenly he’s not so eager to defend Patrek. He never defended me to his old man.

So, Theon only listens silently to Mallister’s spluttering as it meets the brick wall of Robb Stark. He’s a shadow. Really, in any room Robb Stark is in, Theon Greyjoy is less than a fly on the wall. Except in Robb’s eyes, Theon realizes, with no small wonder. If Robb’s telling the truth…

Fuck, Theon is a bit of fan, isn’t he? The worst kind: the ones who want everything to themselves.

“I need to shower,” Theon says urgently… at some point. He meant to say it earlier, only he didn’t foresee Robb tackling him to the bed, pinning Theon at the wrists so as to straddle him without fight, kiss him without interruption. And Robb’s kisses aren’t the chaste pink roses Theon imagined. Robb’s kisses are bruising, blooming fiercely, their thorns biting. Their shirtless bodies undulate like two shedding snakes, flesh on forgiving flesh. Shower, Theon meant to say earlier, but the sight of Patrek’s indignance while being thrown out of his own hotel room…

Alright, Theon’s an evil bastard. What’s pleasure, though, without a prize? Without competition. Patrek won last night but victory’s fleeting, even if Theon still hasn’t washed himself of Patrek’s cum. He needs to shower himself clean, which he meant to say—

“No,” Robb says. Theon struggles fruitlessly beneath him. 

“Mate,” he reasons, laughing awkwardly.

“No,” Robb refuses again, harder. “I’ve been waiting half my goddamn life, Greyjoy.”

Saying yes is yielding, Theon rationally understands, and the dog-eat-dog side of himself would never obey… yet, there’s another perspective here. One where Theon gets to tarnish the Boy Wonder deliciously. Where Robb Stark’s so wretched, he’d take Theon even with another man’s filth still inside him…

For once, Theon doesn’t feel like a whore for being fucked twice in two days. He’s what he was born to be: The fastest man alive.

He doesn’t even insist on a condom— truth is, Theon doesn’t like them. He holds his thighs open while Robb moves, cock so hard he doesn’t even need help guiding himself in. Robb’s likely used to missionary with girls, Theon doesn’t really get a choice in the position— but when Robb leans down to kiss him without breaking his rhythm? When Robb, voice breaking midway, moans his name? All Theon’s clever tricks wash out of his mind.

Theon can only goad; he keeps saying faster, harder, deeper even with Robbie in his chest, his throat, his bleeding heart. And Robb keeps acquiescing even though he’s flushed all over, exhausting himself. Strong hands grasp Theon’s throat for leverage at some point, flexing in time with Robb’s grunts, until Theon’s lightheaded and tapping for relief which Robb gives, easily— even through the tears, Theon’s moaning to the point of hysteria. Full up with cock and emotion, greedily seizing in air. It’s how being washed by his mother’s hands once felt, a torture in the outside basin, the sponge practically stone. She’d dunk him in there and he’d emerge new. 

Screwing Robb scrapes him up, too. For the first in a long time, an orgasm wrings Theon totally dry. Lighter than light.

Later, Theon arranges himself like the prettiest corpse in the morgue (his only concession to romance). Robb’s spunk leaks out slowly while his own spend cakes on his stomach. Robb’s arm is stained, too, where he’s holding Theon. His thigh, pressed up between Theon’s legs. They’re sharing a cigarette from the pack Patrek left behind. My first fag this whole year, Robb grumbles, to which Theon laughs, your first shag, too? Robb pinches him. Har har. Might as well have been. 

Robb rises, after a time. He wipes them both down and cooks up two egg muffins to be eaten in bed, the stupid polite posh bastard. After, Theon’s still knackered. Could sleep for three days.

Robb interrupts that, when he rearranges himself obnoxiously, back finding the headboard.

“Second thoughts?” Theon asks, head resting on Robb’s perfectly sculpted stomach. Humor in his voice.

Robb shrugs. “Only always.” Then he goes silent, though Theon can still feel him running his hand through his hair. Every knot he catches onto, Theon feels.

Robbie only speaks again after the first speck of dust has fallen on their film of peace. “You know, for a long time I thought it was a mistake to let you go. But honestly? I needed to grow up. Discover myself and all.”

“Mhm. And what conclusions have you come to, darling?”

“Well. Mostly that I’m sick of shit that should be mine being stolen from me, and me letting it happen so everyone’ll call me the nicest guy. It’s bullshit. And I’m done playing along.” 

“Too right.”

“Oh? ‘Too right’? Nothing about how I’m an entitled child, and I think the world owes me everything?”

Theon mulls on that. “Eh. That seems like a brother pep talk. My brothers are all dead.”

“I mean… I suppose? Because really, you’re not my big brother. Nor my friend.”

No, I suppose not, Theon nearly says. He makes the mistake of looking up first. Suddenly, Robb’s eyes are all he knows. The look in them is just so… loving. And his smile is loving. And his fingers tracing Theon’s nose bridge are loving. For more years than he can count on his hands, Theon has known that love isn’t enough. True as that is… Theon’s happier right now than he’s been since getting fourth at Monza. All they’re doing is having a lie-in. 

So, maybe nothing’s enough. Which leaves Theon to wonder if love’s just— all there even is.