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Fermín had cared for Pedro. There was no doing anything half-heatedly for Fermín, it was always his all. That applied to his love for racing, for winning, for Pedro. He had thought it was reciprocated, an understanding of the depth of his emotions even at a young age, an understanding that Pedro seemingly did not have.
It hadn't been love, despite what Fermín's mother said. Just a close friendship. Yes, Fermín still spoke to Pedro's family regularly. Yes, he and Pedro had been inseparable. And, yes, Fermín still dreamed of laughing and smiling with his old friend. They were going to be friends forever, they'd win together. Pedro had promised Fermín that, a promise that Pedro had broken.
To this day, Fermín had no idea what exactly had happened. One day, everything was normal. They had spent the day laughing and racing each other. The next, Pedro refused to speak with Fermín. Despite Fermín's confusion, his desperation, tears, Pedro had never spoken to him again. Even Pedro's parents remained tight-lipped about the entire situation, avoiding every mention of Pedro.
The next week, Pedro had left. Fermín only ever saw him again when they reached the same level in racing. Even then, Pedro hardly acknowledged him—referring to Fermín by last name only—and thus the chase began: Who would reach MotoGP first? Previous love and friendship became a race to win, a competition built on desperation.
Even upon reaching the highest level, Pedro still refused to talk with Fermín when not required. Other riders had noticed it, asked Fermín, raised a brow when he had no answer to provide. Press conferences were awful, a tension-filled mess that was slowly driving everyone insane. Podiums, if it was possible, were somehow worse.
Could the cause truly be something as simple as jealousy? A deep-rooted anger Pedro possessed against Fermín for being better? For winning first? But Pedro had always been the golden child, the next big winner. Even Fermín was willing to admit that with a good bike and some patience, Pedro would be unstoppable. That was no secret, anyone with a brain could see that Pedro was something special.
Maybe it was Pedro's fault. Oh, who was he kidding. It was completely Pedro's fault. He used to be close with Fermín, they used to be fucking inseparable. It was Pedro who had pulled away, shut Fermín out and started spouting all the bullshit about not needing friends. Part of it had been his own need to win, to be better than everyone else.
Of course, there was more to the story than just that. It wasn't just time that forced them apart, their different paths to the highest level of racing. No, it was what happened so long ago, the night that Pedro hadn't told anyone about. It was the secret that he was forced to take with him to the grave.
It did hurt, to abandon everyone from his previous life. But after what happened, Pedro didn't have much of a choice. He wanted to keep racing, and to do that, Pedro had to leave everything behind. That included Fermín, his closest friend. And that was how it was. The past was the past and now Pedro needed to focus on winning.
Except he didn't. And Fermín caught up. The new rookie, hooked up with a better team, a better bike. And Pedro still hadn't won. Press conferences were unbearable, every part of Pedro wanting to beg for Fermín's forgiveness. He couldn't do that, of course not. Pedro wasn't a pussy. Besides, Fermín ignored him too. Well, at least he did, for a while.
The confusion, the sadness, it had curdled into anger over the years. Then, it cooled into frustration, irritation. At this point, Fermín just wanted to know why? Coming to MotoGP had been the breaking point. There was nowhere else for Pedro to hide, not unless he wanted to retire early from racing, and Fermín was done chasing. He was going to get closure, one way or another.
Thus, Fermín began to plan. Race weekends were busy. Thursday was full of press and media, Friday to Sunday was training, practice, and racing. It was the only opportunity for Fermín, though, as Pedro was quick to board the plane and leave. As much as Fermín wanted answers, it would be unwise to confront Pedro before a practice session. After races, both sprint and actual, there'd be too many celebrations, too many opportunities for Pedro to escape.
That left one day, Thursday. Fermín would just need to corner Pedro after the press, trap him somewhere private. No one would be looking for Pedro, most likely expecting him to rest in preparation for tomorrow. Fermín could request to have some of his own duties shifted around, giving him time to talk without disrupting work. The plan was perfect—well, it was as good as it was going to get.
Despite earlier confidence, Fermín found himself shaking with nerves. As much as he wanted to know the truth, he was scared. What if Fermín had done something and Pedro's response was justified? Or, even worse, what if the guy Fermín admired so much was just a bad person? Maybe it was that anxiety which led to Fermín speaking with Álex, telling him the entire story and plan.
Álex had been surprisingly calm about the situation, just giving a few words of encouragement and a hug. The gentle support had eased some of the fear consuming Fermín, giving him the final push needed to go and confront Pedro.
Literally.
Álex had shoved him out of the motorhome and locked the door behind him. Fermín was locked out of his own fucking motorhome.
Well, there was no going back now.
Finding Pedro was surprisingly easy. Getting him to walk backwards into a dead-end was even easier. Fermín was seriously questioning if Pedro had any survival instincts. (Or, maybe, Pedro still trusted him—despite everything.)
Taking a deep breath, Fermín mentally prepared himself for what was certainly not going to be an easy talk. "Are you ever going to talk to me?" He had managed to keep the majority of anger out of his tone, but Pedro's wide eyes proved that Fermín hadn't been completely successful. Stupid emotions, always ruining what should be mature conversation.
"I talk to you."
Never mind, Fermín was going to punch Pedro gladly. He had forgotten how annoying Pedro could be, always answering with some smart-ass response.
"You know what I mean." Honestly, Fermín should be getting an award for remaining so calm. Forcing himself to maintain deep breaths, a mental mantra of 'stay calm' repeating, Fermín waited for what stupid words were going to come out of Pedro's mouth next.
Pedro did not disappoint. "I have nothing to say to you." Fermín resisted the urge to point out that contradicted what Pedro had muttered earlier. Arguing was going to get nowhere, it would only encourage Pedro to be more annoying.
"I just want an explanation. I'll leave you alone after that." Fermín insisted, stepping closer to Pedro, who stepped backwards. Odd, Fermín noted to himself. Pedro was not one to run away, but that movement away from Fermín seemed to be an attempt to distance himself. Could Pedro be afraid of Fermín?
(It was Fermín who should be scared;
Fermín had chosen a back alley to corner Pedro in, somewhere that no one would see them. And, far enough from the hospitality, Pedro realised, just in case they started shouting. Perfectly planned, perfectly executed, perfect little Fermín. God, it made Pedro want to rip his throat out.
But not yet.)
Pedro's next word, whispered and sweet, confused Fermín further. "Promise?" His mind stuttered to a halt as he attempted to process Pedro's question. That was the sort of what he'd asked Fermín if they'd win together forever. Fermín found himself replying, same tone and voice as his younger self, as if reassuring Pedro that they would always be together.
"Promise."
Silence stretched, the alleyway slowly darkening as the sun set. Pedro was breathing softly, eyes half-closed. Maybe he was thinking? Fermín resisted the urge to snap at Pedro, impatience mixing with frustration. Mature adult, Fermín reminded himself, he wasn't a kid anymore. He was a mature adult who could wait a few minutes for Pedro to find his words.
How old had they been when they first met? Pedro was sure his mother had the date memorised, his family had always seemed to adore Fermín. Pedro did too, once. Ah, he wasn't even sure where they met. A track, probably, maybe a race. Had Pedro won, or was it Fermín who won? Did it even matter? Probably not, Fermín would likely never talk to him again after this. If his family dropped Pedro—basically disowned him—after he told the truth, then certainly Fermín would as well.
"Maybe that was the problem."
What? Fermín hadn't been patient for some nonsense answer. He considered complaining, telling Pedro to just get to the point, but managed to refrain. With pursed lips, he waited for Pedro to continue, instead focusing on the dazed glaze covering Pedro's eyes.
"My family always wished you were their son, not me."
Whatever Fermín had been expecting him to say, it certainly wasn't that. He probably imagined this was over some petty fight, a race that Fermín won instead of Pedro. Ha! As if Pedro would hold a grudge over something as stupid as that.
(He totally would, but that was irrelevant.)
If Fermín had been confused before, well—this was on a different level. What was Pedro even talking about? Of course his parents wanted Pedro, Fermín was just their son's friend. Although, now that Fermín thought about it, he had never seen Pedro's family at any celebrations or races. In fact, they never mentioned Pedro when Fermín spoke to them. He had thought it was just because they didn't want to upset Fermín but had it been more?
Still, this was hardly relevant to what Fermín wanted to know. It was interesting, sure, a potential explanation. It wasn't an answer, though. Staying quiet, Fermín tried to find a response. What does one say to that? An apology? But this was not Fermín's fault, surely. Luckily, Pedro saved him from having to speak, instead continuing on with his story.
"But it really was just an accident. What happened after, maybe that was intentional, but the beginning of it all was truly just an accident. I swear."
Like many others in Murcia, Pedro was raised in a Catholic family. He had only gone to church a few times, never enough to truly believe in the words of some old scripture, but enough to recall the wooden confession booths. It felt a bit like that now, as if this stone alley was a place to reveal his sins. God would certainly have a field day with Pedro, he thought with a silent chuckle, there was no way Pedro would end up anywhere but Hell.
Well, that answered nothing. In fact, it only made everything more confusing and convoluted. Fermín gladly expressed his confusion. "Pedro? What the fuck are you talking about?" Pedro made eye contact, directly staring at Fermín for the first time since being coerced into the alley. His eyes, although always intense, seemed to bore a hole through Fermín very soul. The expression was only made more frightening by the smile on Pedro's face.
It was a smile that Fermín had never really seen before, a smile that sent a chill down his spine. For the first time, he understood why Pedro is called 'El Tiburón.' There were too many teeth visible, no smile lines or scrunched up eyes to suggest genuine happiness, and painfully wide. He could hardly call it a smile, not with the fear it invoked. Stepping backwards, Fermín regretted every decision that led to this point. Something was seriously wrong here.
"I was trying to help. But I couldn't, the only thing I know how to do is ride bikes. Fermín!" Pedro stepped forward, not letting him escape. Trying to avoid him, run without losing sight of the predator, Fermín stumbled. That mistake was enough for Pedro to lunge forward, teeth snapping, and arms wrestling Fermín against the wall. He had stood no chance, and even now he was unable to fight back. When had Pedro gotten this strong?
When they were young, it had always been Fermín who managed to win play fights. But now? Now, Fermín was helpless. Pedro pressed his forearm against Fermín's throat, applying slight pressure that switched his mind into panic. He clawed desperately at Pedro's arm, trying to pull it away.
Each failed attempt only made Pedro apply more and more pressure, until Fermín was struggling to breath.
"Fermín, you understand, right?"
What had happened? Why was Pedro acting like such a monster? The Pedro that Fermín had once known would never do this. The corners of his vision were beginning to fade, blurry and dark. It wasn't enough to hide Pedro's smile, a smile that would haunt Fermín for a long time.
With a final struggle and strangled complaint of, "What the fuck, Pedro, let go of me now. Let go!" Fermín managed to struggle a knee up, hitting Pedro in the lower stomach. Despite Pedro's pained groan, it backfired miserably. Yes, Pedro's arm moved away and Fermín could finally breath but now Pedro was draped over his body. Fermín couldn't move at all, not with Pedro's body trapping his arms and legs in place. All Fermín could do was shudder at the uncomfortable warmth of Pedro's stuttered inhales and exhales.
The attack hardly discouraged Pedro from continuing with his nonsense. "It's crazy," Pedro's lips brushed against Fermín's ear, "what money can do, no? I was lucky, no, not just lucky. I was good, irreplaceable. Do you think someone would do that for you?"
A few details clicked together, a hazy understanding sending Fermín's pulse fluttering. That was the only reason for the jolting of his muscles, the shifting of his hips. It wasn't the gentle brush of Pedro's lips against his upper neck, words whispered directly into his ear. The touch was so gentle, so different from Pedro's previous violent manhandling. But it still didn't make complete sense, Fermín's brain slow with both the previous lack of air and now with Pedro's touch.
Fermín's pulse was an irregular rush of panic, fluttering under Pedro's touch. It almost felt like a different situation completely, if not for Fermín's weak attempts at struggle. Still, Pedro could imagine himself kissing at Fermín's neck, tongue dragging over that stupid rose tattoo. Maybe it would not be Fermín shouting at him to "let me go!" but whispered pleas for more.
"He had fallen, right in front of me. I tried to catch him, but I was too slow. His foot got twisted in this awkward angle, he couldn't run, and the train wasn't just going to slow down. It was one of those fast ones, the regional trains."
Just like that, Fermín tensed up again, hands clenching into fists that would not be hitting their desired target. The story was starting to make sense, a traumatic childhood story.
"There was nothing I could do, really, as the train hit him. Blood went everywhere, I mean it, the poor guy was basically turned into a red mist."
But it didn't explain everything. Why had Pedro shut him out? Fermín could've helped him!
"I hadn't meant to kill him."
There it was, the final puzzle piece clicking into place. Fermín's chest stuttered to a stop, no oxygen making it into his lungs as realisation struck. "What?" He wanted Pedro to stop talking, despite his question. One part wanted answers, the other wanted to run—to forget about all of this.
"I'm telling the truth. I didn't know that train was coming, it didn't stop at the station so it wasn't listed. I really only meant to shove him around a little, see what I could do. The police never even knew I was there, the train conductor never noticed me and the station had been empty."
Pedro continued, releasing his grip on Fermin's throat to instead caress his face. Fermín hated it, hated the warm touch of calloused fingers. Pedro's thumb brushed over this lower lip, another finger tracing Fermín's cheekbone.
"But I got scared. I told my parents, wrong move, but they messed up worse. They told my manager instead of the police. He defended me, told me I was better off leaving them, that I was too much talent to be wasted."
Flinching away from Pedro's touch, Fermín shook his head frantically. This couldn't be real, Fermín decided. This was some sort of joke. But Pedro wasn't laughing, Fermín wasn't laughing. No, it was just more fucked-up words, a hideous confession that didn't end. Pedro kept talking.
"I was going to make him so much money, you see, when I finally won in MotoGP. So he didn't care what I did outside of racing."
"Pedro," Fermín whispered, but he knew that this wasn't Pedro. At least not his Pedro. That Pedro, the sweet one who cared so much and was desperate to be good, had been destroyed by that train as well. If only Fermín had known, he could've helped! Maybe Pedro wouldn't have ended up as this stranger.
Fermín's expression was undecipherable, but one thing was clear. He was staring at Pedro like he was someone unknown. And yeah, Pedro probably was, but it still hurt to see Fermín look so—there wasn't a word that came to mind.
A stranger, who was pressing his face into the curve of Fermín's neck, a wet tongue dragging over inked skin. Fermín's thoughts froze into a single emotion of panic, fight instincts reigniting his struggle against Pedro's hold.
Pedro hummed, sounding somewhat satisfied. "Shh," Pedro soothed, "you said you wanted answers, right?"
"Not like this, Pedro, not anymore," Fermín practically whined. It didn't matter that he was acting weak, not anymore. All Fermín wanted was for this nightmare to end, for everything to go back to normal. (It was never going to be normal again.)
Pedro's hand gently laced through Fermín's hair, grip tightening with a sharp tug. Pedro hissed, "Don't lie to me." Fermín shook his head, eyes squeezed shut. This wasn't real, this couldn't be real. Why had he ever thought this would be a good idea? And Pedro just wouldn't shut up despite Fermín's frantic shaking of both head and body. "You said you wanted this."
"The man at the train station was my first," Pedro moved on, "but he wasn't my last." The reveal was expected and Fermín had no energy to react with surprise. He just wanted Pedro to stop talking. Fermín didn't need to know more, he didn't need his childhood ruined. His best friend was a psychopath. "You know how many people are willing to sleep with someone on the path to MotoGP racing? I didn't even need to be in the ranks yet. So many of them just wanted me for the experience, not because I was pretty like you. They'd say it too, when they tried to leave."
How many had Pedro killed? How many helpless people had fallen for Pedro's charms and paid the price? And now, Fermín, the first to fall would be the next to die. There was no escaping this. "You're a psychopath, you are a monster." Fermín whispered, bracing himself against the wall for whatever punishment Pedro would surely have. It was stupid to antagonise Pedro but he was going to die anyway, no?
Instead, Pedro just laughed. Loudly. Like Fermín had just told some stupid joke over a couple drinks and beers. As if this situation wasn't life or death. "Oh, Pedro, I never would have slept with you if you weren't in Moto2." Pedro spoke in a high-pitched voice, mocking someone who certainly paid for their rude honesty. "Oh, Pedro, you aren't attractive, you know that right?" Dragging his hand down Fermín's chest, Pedro mockingly fluttered his eyelashes. And in that moment, Fermín doubted if Pedro was the only monster here because, as Pedro spoke in that flirtatious tone, with that expression, and a finger which lingered over Fermín's nipple, a flash of arousal shot through him. "I only slept with you because of dare, because I thought that you'd fall in love with me and I'd get some of your money."
This was beyond dangerous, this was a hell of Fermín's own making. And now, the disguise was gone for Pedro and for Fermín.
"What did you do?" The question has escaped Fermín's mouth before his brain could debate the worthiness of it. He just needed a distraction. Of course, immediately, Fermín regretted it, because Pedro lit up like the fucking sun. He hated it even more when his heart jumped, a stupid reaction that Fermín had never quite grown out of. His body just—reacted to Pedro, like they were two halves of a soul. Despite everything that had happened, the sudden silence that had ended a friendship, Fermín had never lost that feeling. Pedro most likely hadn't either, if this entire situation was any sign.
Fuck, Fermín still was hung up over this maniac. A maniac who had admitted to being the cause of someone's death, who was probably about to confess to several more crimes. This stupid man, who Fermín had dreamed of winning the MotoGP championship with, this bastard that had Fermín pinned to wall. Would he even make it out of this day alive? Oh, why had he thought this was a good idea? Why, why? Fermín had planned this so perfectly, he knew that no one would look for them here, that no one came by this stupid alleyway, that no one would hear the crimes Pedro was confessing to.
Pedro raised a finger, dragging it over Fermín's throat. "The blood gets everywhere when you cut an artery. A pain to clean up, but if you do it right, you get to hear them choking on their own blood. It's this sort of gurgling noise, it's so hot." Fermín was going to throw up, nausea rolling in his stomach. Not only nausea, but fear. Fermín was, as much as he hated to admit it, fucking terrified. He couldn't help the tears pricking at his eyes. Did it matter if Fermín humiliated himself? There was no way Pedro would let him leave alive, right?
Thank god Fermín had told Álex that he was meeting Pedro, at least his death would be evidence for Pedro to get what he deserves. Oh, Fermín would never get to win a championship. He'd never touch a bike again, a trophy, even a silly Tissot sprint watch. There would be no more champagne—oh, his family, his girlfriend. And how would Pedro do it? Fermín didn't want to choke on his own fucking blood, he didn't want to die slow, he didn't want to know what Pedro would do with his body after killing him.
"You can choke them too, with your hands. Feels good, the way they struggle. With ladies, the daintier ones, you can even break their neck. They just go limp, all struggle gone, just like that. It's not as satisfying, but it gets the job done." Well, Pedro would certainly struggle to break Fermín's neck, making that unlikely. Choking? Maybe? Fermín would fight, he would fight until his vision went dark. It was that resolution that gave him the courage to meet Pedro's eyes. It was hard not to flinch when he saw how much Pedro was enjoying this, that wide grin and dilated pupils. He was so close to Fermín too, breath dancing cold over clammy skin.
"I'm not going to kill you, Fermín." Pedro whispered, laughing because—what? Why wouldn't Pedro kill him? Why would he tell Fermín all of this? "I really like you, as much as I shouldn't. I can't help it, you are basically my soulmate. We still need to win together, right?"
"You," Fermín sucked in a shuddering breath, "You remember that." Pedro's answering nod should not have made Fermín's heart feel so warm. This was a serial killer, a murderer, but—he remembered their childhood promise. "Why?" It was a general question, desperate, but Pedro answered clearly.
"You need to experience it to understand. There is a thrill to it." Pedro paused, grip loosening on Fermín. It there was any time to run, it would be now, but Fermín didn't even try. "Go on," Pedro spoke softly, tone drastically different from only seconds before. He seemed almost nervous.
"What?"
"Fight me." Pedro fished out a small pocket knife, the sort that hardly counted as a weapon, and flicked it open. Fermín's pressed against the wall, muffling a whimper of fear as Pedro moved the blade closer. He had that with him the entire time? But, the weapon did not sink into flesh. Instead, Pedro handed it to Fermín, fingers delicately handling the blade so Fermín could easily take the handle with his right hand. "Fight me." He repeated, holding his fists up, teeth still visible in his ever-present grin.
Instinctively, Fermín ducked to avoid the punch Pedro threw at his head. In the same movement, Fermín landed his own punch, hitting Pedro clean in the stomach with his left hand curled into a harsh fist. Easily, Pedro retaliated, and Fermín fell into the blur of fighting with too much ease. It was scary, how quickly Fermín become comfortable slashing and stabbing at Pedro with the knife. His brain had switched off, this fight turning into life or death. There was so time to contemplate why Pedro had given him the blade, why Pedro was focusing more on defense instead of offensive. All Fermín could do was thrive in the adrenaline rush, the cold relief as he finally knocked Pedro to the ground and straddled him. He didn't even process his movements, eyes widening with shock as he took in the sight of a messy haired and flushed Pedro trapped underneath his Fermín's weight, the pocket knife pressed up against Pedro's throat.
He certainly wasn't expecting Pedro to laugh, throat moving, blade sinking past the surface layers of skin. "Didn't that feel so good?" Fermín pressed the blade harder against Pedro's throat, eyes stuck staring at the droplets of blood forming. He hardly processed Pedro's words, instead dragging the blade to the side and watching in some sick satisfaction as Pedro winced at the sting.
"Oh," Fermín exhaled, letting go of the blade to instead grab Pedro's shoulders.
Lazily, as if there was no problem in the entire world, Pedro put the blade to the side, stretching his neck as if he was taking a holiday to the beach, not being pinned down to a dirty asphalt floor. There was definitely shards of broken glass scattered here, mixed in with the cigarette butts and general trash. Neither of them cared.
Pedro's movement caused more blood to bubble up and Fermín leaning forward before he can even process his actions. Just like Pedro had done minutes, maybe hours, before, Fermín licked up Pedro's throat. Instead of a floral tattoo, Fermín licked into the shallow wound, finding himself moaning as the taste of iron flooded his mouth. He was not alone in his moans, Pedro seemed to be twice as loud, panting heavily just from Fermín's touch.
"Do you understand now?"
Fermín nodded, fingers scrambling blindly for the discarded knife. Now that he had a taste—he couldn't let this go. Addicted, just like that, to metal and adrenaline, although mostly just to Pedro.