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Fernando groans, shaking his head sadly and staring down at the foil confetti on the white cotton table cloth in front of him. He’s had enough of this wedding – well, in actual fact, he’d had enough of it by about ten o’clock that morning, but since it’s his cousin; Carla, who’s tying the knot, Fernando knows better than to embarrass his mother by slinking off early to find a bar with less cheesy music.
He wets his fingers in the condensation frosting his half drunk pint and begins picking up the confetti on their tips, inwardly cursing as a body falls into the seat beside him.
“Classic wedding bullshit,” the voice mutters, as two shot glasses land on the table top, one pushed purposefully in Fernando’s direction.
Fernando waves dismissively at whatever spirit the glass contains, he isn’t in the mood for company.
A hand reaches out towards the second shot, snapping it back with a lightening fast movement, “Suit yourself.”
Fernando looks down at the remaining shot, “What is that?”
“Vodka,” the voice says flatly, “didn’t think I’d find a decent one in Spain, but it’s nice to be proved wrong about at least one thing.”
Fernando chuckles softly, glancing sideways at the half lit profile of his new, cynical companion. He doesn’t recall seeing him during the day’s festivities, but assumes he must be a distant relative of his cousin’s new husband.
“Of course, the drink has to do the job, when they’re playing music this bad.”
Fernando nods, looking across at the dance floor where numerous members of his extended family are now swaying and singing to the sound of The Carpenters. He can think of several ways to make ‘birds suddenly appear’ but the majority of them involve hitting himself over the head with blunt, heavy objects.
“You’d think the playlist might have moved on since the Seventies,” Fernando says, with a sigh.
The man beside him laughs silently, “What would your Grandmother dance to then?”
Fernando points to the corner of the room, “My grandmother is sitting over there, and she’s probably drunker than anyone else in this room.”
“That sounds like a challenge. Are you going to drink that?” the man asks, jerking his thumb at the abandoned vodka.
Fernando picks it up, raising it to eyebrow height in a silent salute, and throws it down his throat.
The subsequent coughing turns heads at adjacent tables.
“I told you it was good,” the voice purrs, and Fernando can sense a note of smugness in it, like the whole idea was to make him look stupid.
He rounds on the man, eyes streaming, he’s only just met the guy, but if he has to hit him, he will.
“Slow down, Matador,” he chuckles, “I should have told you it was Finnish vodka; it has a bit more of a kick to it.”
Fernando’s chest heaves as he pulls in air, clearing his throat a number of times and wiping his face as he sits back down. Nobody on the dance floor seems to have noticed he was in need of help, Fernando finds this somewhat typical.
“Kimi,” the man says, by way of an introduction, and offers his hand, which Fernando shakes.
“You’re a friend of the groom?” Fernando asks, hoping that the question sounds less like the stab in the dark it does in his head.
The man named Kimi smiles, “Nope.”
Fernando frowns, “You know Carla?”
The grin widens, “Nope.”
Realisation dawns on Fernando, and he clenches his fists with building anger, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave then, Kimi.”
Kimi laughs sharply, giving Fernando a look which simply says ‘Seriously?’.
“You can’t just crash my cousin’s wedding, I –,”
Kimi’s eyebrows lift and he’s laughing again, harder, “Do I look like fucking Owen Wilson?”
Fernando takes in the shock of messy blonde hair and the lopsided smile of his companion, considers it for a moment and then shakes his head.
“Honestly, Fernando, who actually crashes weddings?” he says, rolling his eyes, “My date is over there.”
Fernando looks across at a dark haired girl, leaning unsteadily against one of the rooms pillars as she sings along with the music. Every couple of seconds she jerks, and then giggles, giving him the impression that she has hiccups.
“Why aren’t you with her?”
Kimi gestures towards her again, as though her visible condition was explanation enough for his absence. “She’s my best friend’s little sister, she spent a year travelling with your cousin, and she had nobody to come with her, but she’s very annoying”
Fernando smirks, “Very noble of you.”
“Free bar, attractive company,” he winks at Fernando, “what else could I possibly need?”
“She’s coming this way.”
Kimi hops up out of his seat, grabs Fernando’s pint, and then Fernando, steering him around the tables by the lapel of his jacket, until they reach a door marked ‘Cloakroom’.
Kimi twists the handle, pulls Fernando in after him and hands him back his drink.
Fernando looks stunned, “What do you think you’re do – ,”
“Look,” Kimi begins, looking vaguely embarrassed before the smile curls back into the corners of his mouth, "we’re both bored. All I’ve done is try to inject a little excitement into the evening.”
“You’ve just dragged me into a cupboard in front of my whole family!” Fernando snaps, outraged.
Kimi’s eyes roll, “Your family didn’t even notice when you were choking to death on your first shot of decent vodka.”
Fernando looks hurt, raising his pint to his lips because he can’t think of anything to say, Kimi has got him on that one, his near death experience couldn’t compete with the attentions of Bryan Adams, not even for a couple of seconds.
Kimi reaches out and takes the glass off him, gulping down a couple of mouthfuls before resting it on a shelf beside the door.
“Look at all these nasty things,” he says, lifting the sleeve of a nearby fur coat and eyeing it critically, “who wears this kind of shit?”
Fernando glances at the orange pelt, recognising it as ancient fox fur, “Aunt Maria, don’t get too close to it, you’ll smell like mothballs for a month.”
Kimi laughs through his nose and pulls it off its hanger, leaping at Fernando.
“Fuck off with that!” Fernando yelps, diving at a row of less extravagant coats for safety.
Kimi opens the fur coat, taking a deep, theatrical breath, “Mmmm! It smells like old lady!’
Fernando gags, “You’re disgusting, go back to your date!”
“No,” Kimi snaps playfully, “I found someone better to play with.”
“You’re not playing with me,” Fernando says, trying to sound firm, as he takes a step away from Kimi.
Kimi pouts; mirroring Fernando’s backwards steps until he has the Spaniard’s back flush against the coat lined wall.
“Kimi, we only just met, and your date is –,”
Kimi reaches a hand to Fernando’s forehead, pushing his hard hair away from his eyes.
Fernando swallows, loudly.
“My date is hammered, and not my type,” Kimi says, his breath dancing over Fernando’s neck as his fingers lazily loosen his tie and top button.
“Wh-what’s your type?” Fernando stammers his voice barely above a whisper.
Kimi chuckles, and then licks a trail from Fernando’s neck to his ear. He gives the lobe a gentle nibble before he pulls away, “You’re my type.”
“Oh.”
“Is that alright, Fernando?” Kimi asks, although the request is perfunctory, since he’s already sliding his hand under Fernando’s shirt.
Fernando’s fingers tighten on Kimi’s hips – how they got there, Fernando can’t begin to remember, and he simply murmurs his agreement against a sharp stubbled jaw before a tongue forces its way into his mouth.
It can only be lack of oxygen making Fernando’s head spin, because he’s gasping for breath, coming to his senses long enough to realise that Kimi is on his knees, his hands making short work of the buckle of his belt.
“The door –,” Fernando croaks, shuddering as Kimi releases him from his boxer shorts and whimpering at the ripple of hot breath against over sensitive skin.
“Shhh,” Kimi replies, wrapping his fingers around Fernando’s erection and stroking him firmly; several times.
Fernando’s body spasms and he digs his fingernails into Kimi’s shirt clad shoulders.
“You need to stop,” Fernando says, with zero conviction.
Kimi grins, “Say it like you mean it, Fernando,” he says, and slides the Spaniard’s entire length down his throat.
Fernando’s back arches against the wall, Kimi’s mouth feels like it’s filled with fire, and Fernando wants to burn, his fingers scrambling into the hair at the back of Kimi’s head and knotting into the strands. Fernando never wants to take his dick out of Kimi’s mouth, because that would mean giving up this feeling, and he’s too selfish for that.
Outside the door, he can hear the music, muffled to bass by the wall between and the blood rushing through his ears. He knows the door isn’t locked, he knows anyone could walk in at any moment, and the fear fights with the adrenaline turning every wave of pleasure into a tidal wave, making his body jerk so violently Kimi has to hold his hips against the wall to stop Fernando choking him.
Kimi’s tongue winds around him; seemingly aware of every point with potential to make Fernando’s head spin. He can feel it coming, the pressure building in his gut, warmth almost buzzing inside him, getting stronger and stronger, like static.
Fernando bites down into his lower lip, a faint copper taste on his tongue telling him he’s broken the skin, and presses his head against the mahogany panel. The sound of Kimi’s wet lips around him and the steady lapping of his hot tongue within finally drag him over the edge and he comes hard, thudding back against the solid wall and then pushing back into Kimi’s mouth, unwilling to leave, clutching at his skull mindlessly.
“Fernando!”
Fernando’s eyes snap open in horror, as a set of knuckles rap on the frosted door glass beside them.
Kimi leaps to his feet, chucking at Fernando’s lack of coordination as he attempts to fasten his trousers. The door handle creaks as the belt buckle hits home and Kimi runs a hand across his orgasm tousled hair.
“Fernando, what are you doing in the cloakroom? It is your cousin’s first dance!”
Fernando swallows, trying to mask the shame of being interrupted by his mother, and gestures towards Kimi, who grins at the short Spanish woman.
“I was helping a guest find his coat, Mamma. I’ll be right out.”
Fernando’s mother gives Kimi an almost x-ray strength glare, but his grin simply widens and she turns on her heel with a hmph! and stalks away.
“That was too close,” Fernando hisses, straightening his tie and pushing his shirt sleeves up his forearms.
Kimi prods him in the stomach, “I like to live dangerously.”
Fernando scowls, “Perhaps you wouldn’t be saying that if you had my mother?”
“I bet she’s marvellous when she’s angry.”
“Let’s hope you never find out,” Fernando snaps.
Kimi rolls his eyes and slips a hand into his pocket, pulling out a wallet, which he opens.
“I’m in Spain until Thursday,” he explains, extracting a white card from the leather and holding it towards Fernando, “make sure you call me.”
Fernando looks down at the card, as Kimi leaves the cloakroom, noting the embossed mobile number beneath simple typeface; ‘Kimi Raikkonen’. No business, no title, just a name and a number, and when Fernando raises his head, he can’t see Kimi anywhere, just the happy couple twirling on the dance floor, making him wonder if the moment even happened at all.