#Miss Vallarta | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

scrollonso · 2 months ago

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I'll Miss You — Chestappen

When Checo comes back home, the lights are turned on, and his welcome mat has been turned upside down. Checo doesn't try to unlock the door; he already knows the lock has been picked.

He valses in, slams it open to make his presence known, and hangs his coat over the staircase railing. A faint creaking noise reaches him. It's coming straight from the bedroom. Checo feels like an idiot, a little lost and a lot more annoyed — Max knows what happened.

Checo kicks off his shoes and turns on the lights. He climbs the stairs. Sure enough, the infinitely quiet whisper of a breath can be heard through the walls.

"Why are you here," Checo asks as he walks into his bedroom, because it's mid December in Puerto Vallarta and seeing Max laying flat on his bed was not what he expected though he was glad it was Carola's weekend with the kids.

"I thought I'd pay you a visit," Max replies with the slightest slur — of course he was drunk. "Can I not visit my favourite teammate?"

Checo looks him up and down. Max's wearing his usual clothes, minus his sneakers — he knows how Checo feels about wearing shoes upstairs — and his hair looks unkept. Overgrown brown hair sticks to his neck and temples, damp; he must've come out of Checo's shower a mere moment ago.

"Get out of my bed. Your clothes are dirty."

Max tilts his head at a weird angle. He eyes Checo from behind his shoulder, too awkward to be coy, and purses his lips.

"I was going to leave anyway. Your bed is too small for me. I guess it's only fit for such a tiny man."

Checo has been letting the news of Liam replacing him marinate inside since Qatar and has no energy to argue with a Max that's half-drunk and bratty. He shrugs, leaning onto the doorframe.

"Whatever. The door is open."

Their eyes meet. Checo isn't fazed by the blank canvas that is Max's expression; he can see his eyes flicker from one eye to another, tracing his mouth, lowering to his neck — his adams apple, raising back up. Max is thinking. Contemplating whether to actually leave or to stay, most likely. Wondering which option would piss Checo off the most. Debating what kind of reaction would be more entertaining to witness.

Checo doesn't give Max a single clue. He gets started with his morning routine instead. He unbuttons his coat — his Red Bull branded coat — slides it off his chest, and throws it into the laundry basket next to the bathroom door. His button-up shirt takes more time: the buttons are smaller, and Checo's light-headed due to sleep deprivation.

He doesn't need to watch Max's eyes to know he's staring. And Checo could put on a show, flex his muscles, arch his head back, but ultimately, he's trying not to sway Max one way or another. Whether Max decides to slip under the covers or slip out of his house will forever remain his own decision. Checo's never been into the idea of making that choice for him.

He slides off his pants. It's clinical, mechanical; the sound of Max swallowing is loud in the silence, but so is the rustle of fabric, and that makes it easier to ignore. He slips off his socks, his wedding band he's yet to get rid of.

Standing in his underwear in front of Max Verstappen will never not be nerve-wracking. No matter how many times he's been looked at, clawed at, touched, caressed, grabbed, bruised, punched, Max's presence feels brand new each and every time. It's familiar, still. Checo knows what makes him tick. What living under a gaze like Max has does to a person. And though Checo does not shiver, his arms are covered in goosebumps, and he doubts it escapes Max's notice.

When Checo pushes the bathroom door open, Max clears his throat. He sounds rough, like he's been screaming. Or— well.

"What if I don't want to take off my clothes?" he asks, pointedly. It's not a genuine question. He's testing him, like he's never been naked in front of Checo before, like he doesn't know how Checo will respond.

"Your pyjamas are in the bottom left drawer."

"I know that."

"Of course you do. Shut up, then."

Max snorts. He rises from the bed. Checo turns to look at him. Much like Checo a second ago, Max undresses in short, blunt movements. First the coat, then the button up, and finally the pants. He leaves the socks on, his watch. But that doesn't come off as much of a surprise anyway. All the while, Max holds Checo's gaze. It holds weight. Some heat, some triumph, some fear. There's always some fear in Max's eyes. It was there, too, the day they met, when Max got much too close for comfort and told him in that sunny-bright voice that he loved him.

Checo does not think that there is a single emotion Max knows quite as well as fear.

"There. I'm naked. What now?"

Checo lets out an involuntary, brief chuckle. "You sound annoyed about it."

"That's because I am annoyed about it."

"Why did you get naked, then?"

Max eyes flicker away for a finite second. "Well, Checo did. I wouldn't want to make him feel stupid, you see."

"How gracious of you," Checo says, and beckons him near with a twirl of the fingers.

Like gravity is pushing him, Max goes — he's never this obedient, that's how Checo knows he's aware of his Red Bull situation. His step is hesitant. He stumbles around Checo's bed and stops just shy of Checo's hand. He could almost pass for embarrassed, if Max knew such a thing as shame. His eyes zero on Checo's fingers. The rough, tan, freckled skin.

Max has filled out with the years. His cheeks are slimmer, eyes less sunken in, lips a shade or two darker than his skin. He blushes, now, it seems. Checo stares at the pink flush dusting his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, and tries to cope with the knowledge that Max Verstappen blushes the same colour as his nipples.

He must do a bad job at stifling his laughter. Max's eyes narrow, the picture of defensiveness, and he pouts.

"What is it?"

"I'm not mocking you," Checo attempts to soothe.

"I never said you were!" Max barks back, flushing darker and prettier. He shifts away. Takes a step back.

Checo loses all mirth at once. He'd almost forgotten how porcelain-fragile Max could be — even when Checo is the one who should be hurt right now — beneath all that bravado and taunts. Checo leans against the wall behind him and taps his thigh with the hand that isn't brushing Max's chin. It's a bit of a gamble. A shot in the dark. He isn't sure if Max would recognise the command, or even respond to it, but he won't lose anything by trying. It might help dislodging the stick out of Max's ass, at the very least.

Max's pupils dilate. His body tenses, nostrils flaring. When he drops to his knees, it's so loud and sudden that even Checo flinches. Checo can't stifle the deep exhale of relief that comes then. Max is looking up at him with the same expecting eyes as when Checo joined the team — when they fucked for the first time. But the same way he was trembling, hesitant, and pure four year ago, now there's something cheeky about his air, the way he eyes Checo through his lashes.

Checo rests his palm under Max's chin. Max leans into his touch, warm, affectionate. Checo bites back a wave of pink-gold feelings that he'd rather not confront sober at one thirty in the morning.

"And you call me the dog," Checo says, fully knowing he shouldn't, when Max nuzzles his thigh.

Max blushes all the way down to his neck, and he stops moving. Checo tucks a lock of brown — realistically, dirty blonde — hair behind his ear. Something vicious inside his heart relishes in seeing Max in a vulnerable position again. Not in pain, not risking death, not stressed out of his wits — but genuinely and wholly vulnerable. Here, Checo could reach and squeeze his throat, and Max would let him. Here, Checo could call him a dog, and Max would blush and like it.

"Still into it?" he says, low in his throat. "The name-calling."

Max shakes his head, cheek pressed against Checo knee. "I was never into it to begin with. That was all just wishful thinking on your part, stupid."

"Yeah, don't even try. I haven't forgotten the time you came just from being called a slut."

"That was years ago!" Max protests.

"So?"

"So it's irrelevant."

"Mh. Sure."

Checo traces Max's jaw with the tip of his fingers. He thanks God — if God exists, but now isn't the time for existential thoughts — for making the angel on his knees in front of him the last person he's had the pleasure to drive alongside before having to retire. He doesn't tremble, when Max's mouth kisses his palm, though the tremor in his heart is so powerful he fears Max might hear it.

"You're staying."

"Is that a question?" Max huffs.

"Does it need to be?"

"I'm staying."

"I know." Checo swipes his thumb right under his eye. The skin is soft, giving. If he applied just enough pressure…

Max whines, "Stop thinking about gouging my eyes out, will you?"

Checo startles. Almost. "How did you know?"

"Puh. Because I've thought about the same thing a million and a half times, of course. You're not very original."

Max blinks up at him. He grins, more smirk than smile, and nibbles at Checo's fingers. Checo pushes them further into Max's mouth in retaliation. Max makes a half-muffled noise of surprise — or annoyance — and takes it in stride. Checo presses the pads of his index and middle fingers against Max's tongue. It's plush. Wet. Wriggling against him.

"You're disgusting," Checo comments.

Max bites down, gentler than he most likely could've. It barely even hurts. Checo smirks. He takes out his fingers, and with nowhere to wipe them, licks them clean. Max stares at his tongue intently.

Oh, yes. He's staying alright.

"Get on the bed," Checo tells him.

Max, for a moment, stays transfixed on his mouth. Then, "And what if I don't?"

"Leave my house in your socks and panties, for all I care. See if the winter breeze treats you better than I can."

Max glares, indignant, but obeys and climbs into the queen-sized bed. It's all awkwardly long limbs and pale skin. There's no grace to his movements, no thought behind what he does. Max sinks into the plush mattress and stares off into the void. Checo wonders if he's the only one who gets to see him like this. If others get to fuck the Max that's charismatic, polished, sexy — the Max that Checo's never met and never wishes to meet. If he is the only person in this world that gets to see Max without pretences. If Kelly, the woman carrying his child, gets to see him like this.

Checo sits in between his legs, criss-crossed. He's slouching and the angle probably gives him a double chin: Max looks at him like he's holding the stars between his teeth. That's something he's come to learn about the driver laid so softly against his maroon sheets. No matter how much Max claims to care about no one but himself, claims to be ruthless and unforgiving, there is not a single being on Earth that has looked at Checo with as much adoration as he.

"I don't want to have sex," Max says.

Checo looks at him, his expression softening. "Okay?"

"Maybe I just wanted to talk."

"Talk?" Checo echoes, his tone neutral but curious as he waits for Max to continue.

Max shifts, sitting up and unintentionally moving closer to Checo. Their faces are so close that their breaths mingle, and Max hesitates for a moment, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "I'm sorry."

Checo raises an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly. "Sorry for what?"

Max takes a deep breath, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "About... about what happened with your seat. About Liam." He pauses, his gaze dropping to his lap. "It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right. You’ve done so much for the team, for everyone, and they just—" He cuts himself off, he seemed more upset about the whole ordeal than Checo did.

Checo watches him for a moment, his dark eyes unreadable. "Max," he says softly, placing a hand on the younger man's shoulder, "you don’t have to apologize for something that wasn’t your fault."

"I know, but—" Max looks up, his expression filled with guilt and frustration. "I didn’t do anything. I didn’t say anything. I should’ve stood up for you, Checo. You deserved better than that."

Checo smiles faintly, though there’s a sadness in it. "It’s Formula 1, Max. It’s not always fair. And you? You’ve got enough on your plate without trying to fight my battles too."

"But you’re my teammate—" Max’s voice wavers, and he quickly corrects himself. "You were my teammate. And more than that, you’re my friend. I should’ve done more."

Checo’s hand squeezes his bare shoulder gently. "You’ve always supported me in your own way, Max. And I appreciate that. But this... this is just how it goes sometimes. Liam’s an alright kid, and I’ll find my place again. I always do."

Max swallows hard, his chest tightening. "It still doesn’t feel right."

Checo’s smile grows a little, the warmth in it reassuring. "It doesn’t have to. What matters is that we both gave everything we had while we were teammates. I’ll always be proud of that. And you should be too."

Max nods slowly, but the weight in his chest doesn’t quite lift. "I just— I hope you know how much you mean to me. Not just as a driver, but as a person."

Checo’s eyes soften, and he pulls Max into a brief but firm hug. "I know, Max. And you mean a lot to me too. Now, stop beating yourself up about it, okay?"

Max doesn’t respond immediately, but as he leans into the embrace, he feels a flicker of comfort, even if the guilt hasn’t entirely faded. For now, it’s enough.

There's a moment of silence. Max's breathing is heavier, of course, and his arms come to circle Checo's chest in a mimic of a hug. Checo presses his teeth to the arteries. It's gentle. Max hisses low and soft in his throat.

"You're warm," Checo tells him. It's true; it's worth saying because Max used to be as cold as the dead of night. He's never felt as alive as now.

Max nods, his nose brushing Checo's jaw. He inhales. It's shaky. "I could almost pass for a real human being, now. Right?"

"I wouldn't know." Checo presses an open-mouthed kiss to his clavicle. They don't look like they could pierce the skin anymore. There's flesh, now, filling out the dips. Checo likes seeing it.

It stings, much more than he'd like to admit, to know that Max was hurting at the thought of having to drive alongside someone other than Checo.

Max’s gaze flickers with something fragile, a desperate attempt to mask the sadness threatening to consume him. He leans in closer, his lips brushing Checo’s cheek. “Did you miss me?” he murmurs, but his voice lacks its usual confidence, trembling under the weight of everything left unsaid.

“No,” Checo replies, forcing the word out like it doesn’t choke him. “Of course I didn’t.”

“Rude,” Max mutters, though the tease feels hollow. Something flickers in his eyes—fear, maybe, or regret. His lips press into a thin line before he asks, “Did you find someone else?” The question hangs heavy in the air, but what he really wants to ask remains unspoken: Is that why you’re leaving me, leaving Red Bull?

Checo bites down, mean and sharp, and ignores the needy gasp that he hears. “Don’t give me that shit. Fuck, Max.” His voice cracks, betraying him as he shakes his head, his breath hitching. “How could I find anyone else after knowing what it’s like to love you?” He looks away, his jaw clenched tightly, his own emotions clawing their way to the surface.

Max blinks, stunned by the confession, and his facade crumbles. “Then why are you doing this?” His voice is quiet, shaky, and it shatters the fragile calm between them. “Why are you leaving, Checo? I don’t understand.”

Checo exhales harshly, dragging a hand through his hair as if it might anchor him. “Because I have to,” he says, and the words sound more like he’s trying to convince himself than Max. “Because this team — it’s your world, Max, not mine. I’ve done my part. It’s time for me to move on.”

“But I’m still here,” Max says, his voice breaking on the last word. His hands tremble at his sides, helpless to stop Checo from slipping away. “I need you, Checo. You’ve been the only constant in all of this — the one person who’s ever really been there for me.”

Checo turns back to him, his expression softening for a moment before the pain returns, sharp and unforgiving. “Max, you’ll be fine. You’re stronger than you think.”

“I don’t care about being strong,” Max snaps, frustration and sorrow colliding in his chest. “I care about you. I don’t want to do this without you.”

Checo detaches himself from Max's neck. It glistens with spit and the pink imprints of Checo's teeth. He brushes the bite mark with the tip of his fingers, an odd satisfaction rising. Max chases his gaze, when his mouth chases after Checo's, it's easy to let their lips collide.

Checo palms the back of his neck, pressing them together, and Max responds with familiar enthusiasm. The rhythm of his mouth, Chdco knows peculiarly well. The slow glide of his tongue. The hint of too-sharp teeth. He'd make a good vampire , Checo thinks, head in the clouds, as their lips slide against each other.

His eyes fall shut. It's much too easy to lose himself in the cadence. Max kisses him, and if he was the type of man to like to pretend, Checo could almost make himself believe everything's normal. They aren't athletes, he isn't divorced, Max doesn't have a child on the way. Max's hand rises and cradles his cheek. There's an overwhelming amount of care in that simple gesture. Checo's heart beats with the strength of a hurricane. A finger toys with his earlobe. Another swipes right above his cheekbone. Checo has given up on this too long ago to feel at peace with finding it again, and he chokes on tears he will never shed.

"I missed you," Max rasps against him. His hips have started rocking on their own, a slow and gentle roll that makes Checo grit his teeth to stifle moans of his own. "I'll miss you."

"Did you?" he counters, out of breath, biting into the plushness of lips. "Weren't you too busy playing house with your Kelly to think about anything else?"

"Jealousy is a good look on you."

Max licks into his mouth, the way he knows makes Checo's brain stutter. Checo's hands grab at his hips a little desperately. He pushes him down. The obvious hardness in Max's underwear only serves to spur him on. They grind together, gentle, sensual, Max's panting a melody in his ears.

Checo's always been too vocal. He moans, effortlessly, watches as Max's eyes glaze over with want. Knowing that Max wants him, still, after so many years of the same thing, does odd things to his heart. He certainly should not feel so much elation — he certainly should not feel many, many things. But it's mid December, he hasn't slept in three days, and Maz is open and willing and warm on top of him: Checo yearns achingly so.

"I'm not jealous," Checo has half the mind to reply.

"You are. Te extrañé, you know."

"I didn't."

Max kisses him softly, saccharine sweet. He's blushing all over, stomach trembling, and here's a neediness to him that does Checo in. He dips his fingers under Max's boxer briefs.

"I know why you left."

"Hm. Do you?"

Checo looks into his eyes. A beat passes. Max raises his hips, allowing him to slide the fabric down his thighs. Checo does. He brushes his hands down his skin, teasing the inner thigh, watches as Max's breathing speeds up. There's nothing Checo hasn't seen before: fragile flesh, dark patches of hair, scars. None seem fresh. They are all months old, at least. Checo feels — strange, seeing this. He fears it might all be gone the next time he blinks.

Max is all flushed, looking as content as a cat in the sunlight. He reaches for Checo's own underwear. Checo lifts his hip and Maz as consequence, amused by the way Max seems absolutely enamoured by his strength. His boxers are removed. Now that the nervousness is gone, Checo appreciates Max's eyes on him. They speak more sincerely than his mouth, most of the time.

Why didn't you ask me to come with you? Max wants to ask, though he knows it would be futile. He knows why. It was never about Checo in the first place. Sometimes, running away is all it is: running away. Sometimes, people go, and that is all there it is to it. Checo did not leave the team because it would break Max's heart.

It's a blur afterwards. Max knows where Checo hides his lube, apparently, because in just a few blinks, he's already squirting some into Checo's palm. Checo watches without hiding his amusement.

"Are you clean?"

Max pauses. He clears his throat. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand — gross . "You think I'm not?"

Checo considers him. He does not think Max would lie about this.

"I think I don't trust the woman carrying your child."

Checo rubs his fingers together to warm them. Max settles in his lap again, pressing their hips together — obviously not wanting to speak about the woman waiting at home for him. He's definitely worked up, flustered enough to fiddle and twitch. Checo wants to kiss him. He does. There's too much fondness and adoration in his heart to ignore. He doesn't know what to do with all of it. Restless, Max kisses back.

"Maxie. Tell me if it starts to hurt."

Max gasps, nods, and buries his face in Checo's neck. A single finger eases in slow, easy. Checo knows Max's body like the back of his hand. He knows what he wants, knows how stubborn he can be. Knows that he likes gentleness no matter how hard he tries to hide it. Max shifts around. Checo kisses the crown of his neck.

"Feels different," Max confesses, once Checo introduces a second finger.

"Bad different?"

"Mmhh— no. Just, different. Kelly doesn't like touching me like you do."

Checo brushes a hand along Max's spine. Max shivers, moans and cuts himself off at once. Checo waits patiently for him to relax. His second finger is halfway there, and they have all the time in the world. It's winter break and Checo no longer has to spend half his time split between his kids and his job.

Max pants into his mouth, warm, and Checo immediately forgets about his children. "More?" he asks, softly.

"Yeah." Max sighs.

Checo kisses his jaw, his cheek, his neck. There's so much skin to kiss. The clothes he wears to cover himself to purposely are long gone, leaving nothing but the marks left from years of hurt. Checo likes to trace them with his tongue. The scar tissue is interesting, the texture different, and much more sensitive than the rest of him.

Max trembles a bit. It's normal. Checo makes sure to move his hand gently, carefully, easing him into the sensation. Checo would rather keep this as slow and sweet as possible. A bead of sweat trickles down Max's temple. He's frowning, brows knit tightly together, and Checo smirks, because he knows that means Max's trying to keep it cool.

Checo crooks his fingers the way he remembers it. Just a bit to the right, deeper than he'd think possible, he brushes a spot that has Max tense and hissing between his teeth, throwing his head down. He moans just as high-pitched as he did back when they came this close for the first time. Impossibly fond, Checo kisses his forehead.

"Is it still good?"

Max glares, though it's ruined by his deep flush and his shaky breathing. "No, I hate this. I'm currently— mph, yeah, okay —really, not, really not into this."

"Just making sure," Checo shrugs, and presses into his prostate again.

Max shakes all over. Their mouths meet again, as if guided by an invisible string, and they kiss deep and messy and wet. Max's lips are slick and bruised a deep pink. Checo stretches him diligently for a good two minutes before the first complaints reach him.

"H— fuck. Hey, 'm not, fragile, okay? You'd think you, out of all people, would know…"

"I do know."

"Then take your dumb fingers out!"

Checo raises an eyebrow. "Are you hurting?"

"No, obviously, I'm— ngh, ah, I'm— ready."

"Ready? For what?"

Max stares at him in obvious distress. He opens his mouth, probably to insult him, but Checo cuts him off with a twist of the wrist. The moan that follows is longer, sweeter than the others that preceded. Max pants, thighs trembling around Checo's arm.

"Come on, Maxie. You can say it."

"Don't call me— don't call me that."

Checo sighs, pressing down the arch of Checo's back. He goes, pliant and malleable, and Checo holds him close. He can pretend it's all for sex, at least, if Max asks why he's so touchy-feely. Though, to be fair, he probably is far more touch-starved than Checo ever was. Checo kisses him again; it's a thrill he can't get over yet.

Gently, he speaks. "Okay, tesoro, okay. What is it you want?"

Max nuzzles against him, hot and breathy and warm. "Fuck me?"

Shit.

"Yeah," Checo says, choked up by emotions he won't name. "Yeah, of course."

They breathe together, into each other, melting against skin and lips and curious fingers. It's gold-bright and hot, wet, and when Max moves and sinks into him, he worries he might burst into tears. Max's arms circle his neck. He holds onto him like a lifeline. Checo rests his hands against his hips, guiding him up and down, pressing open-mouthed kisses to Max's sweat-slick chest.

"Ah— Ah , Checo, this is…" Max trails off, muttering curses under his breath. He makes a lovely picture. His hair is damp, clinging to his face, even messier than it usually is. The scarlet-brown eyes that dig into Checo glisten slightly. It's a relief to know Checo isn't the only one being a crybaby here.

He presses a kiss to the hollow of Max's throat. His hips roll upwards. "How do you feel?"

"Nhhh, ah, good. Good."

"Just good?"

Max grinds down, a tad desperate, scrambling for purchase against Checo's chest. He bites at his lips viciously. Checo tastes blood. He likes it.

"Shit! No, yes, good. It's good," Max stammers, "Ah. More?"

"Anything— anything you want," Checo promises.

He means it. If it denotes he can keep Maz like this, awkward in his sensuality, blushing red and furious, chasing after his own pleasure in Checo's lap, then he would give him anything. His palms brush against Max's waist, his belly, and then down. Max honest-to-god whines.

"Fuck's sake," Checo rasps.

His hips snap forward, and Max seems to fold onto himself. He keeps the pace slow. At every thrust, he wonders just how deeply he can go, how much of Max he can reach. It's overwhelmingly good. The sounds of skin slapping skin would be embarrassing, if not for how little Checo cared to be embarrassed. Max's mouth had opened at some point to never close again.

"S— Sergio . Close. 'M close."

Checo kisses him as answer, a mess of spit and tongue and too much teeth. They roll their hips together, slow, slow, and every time, he hits the same spot that has Max writhing and twitching. His moans grow louder and whinier. His thighs tremble with the effort, but not a single moment does he stop moving. Checo's scalp tingles. He can feel it just under his skin, his release, knows he won't let himself come until Max has.

"H— Hey, Maxie, you know I— you know I did miss you, right?"

He doesn't know why he's saying this. He doesn't know where the words are even coming from.

Max's eyes soften. When they kiss, it's honey-sweet. "I know you did. You're a terrible liar."

"Just to you," Checo counters weakly. He shakes his head. Max breathes against his temple. "I can't lie to you."

"And do— ah, ah , do you know why that is?"

And for once, it's a sincere question. Maybe Max knows, but wants him to say it outright. Or maybe he truly has no idea. But it's a question, and it's genuine, and for once it doesn't sound like Max is playing him like a fiddle.

"You know me too well…"

"We're one in the same." Max's eyes close, lashes fanning across his cheeks prettily. Checo's hand works him up and down as they move. "We both share one — nhhh, I'm close — we both—"

Max comes with a high-pitched noise and a single tear caught in the corner of his eye. Checo watches, fascinated, as his body tenses as tightly as a nocked arrow, and suddenly, release spills all over his fingers. It's quick. It looks intense. And as soon as it's over, Checo's body decides that's enough, and he comes much the same way. He throws his head back; the pleasure isn't something he can properly describe, but it's bone-deep, and it feels more emotional than physical.

Checo reaches up and brushes his thumb under Max's eye. He catches the tear there, and it disappears as moisture on their skin. Their shared breathing is shockingly loud, now that the heat of the moment has passed, and Checo's suddenly glad he lives in a secluded area. Gone are the times he had to live atop a store, now he has more than enough money to live in a house, alone, with walls thick enough to fuck his former teammate without being disturbed.

"We both share one soul," Max murmurs then. Their eyes meet.

Checo had never forgotten how beautiful Max could be. But it still hits him like a truck, right then and there, to realise that he is holding him in his arms. They've fucked before, but they've never made love. An itch in his brain he never realised he even possessed is satisfied, and Checo thinks he could sleep for a thousand years.

He smiles. "I would have gone with you. I know it wasn't the point. I know you didn't think about me when you were told you were being dropped, and I'm not mad about it. But, I want you to know that I would come with you to the ends of the world."

Warm hands cradle his face. "I did think about you. Always, I do."

They shuffle around. Max slips under the grey blankets — Checo bites back a wave of satisfaction, but this is his bed, and Max is sleeping in his house, warm, safe, cared for, and it's all he has ever wanted — while Checo goes to retrieve baby wipes and towels.

When he comes back from the bathroom, Max's socks have been thrown onto the floor. Checo doesn't bother chastising him for it. Max meets his gaze with a grin. He stretches his entire body, arms thrown over his head, throat exposed and pink, and Checo wants. They sit together. Checo cleans him up. Max buries his face in his chest.

"D'you feel alright?" His voice is gentle enough to surprise even himself.

Max's arms squeeze him. His leg is thrown around Checo's waist. "Mh. I'm glad I didn't leave when I heard you come in."

Checo breathes in his scent. He thinks Max's shampoo might be a mix of almonds and something else.

"How did you even find my house?"

Max blinks slowly. "I have my ways." He wasn't going to tell Checo that he called Lance and begged him to send it.

Checo flicks his nose. "You're impossible. Fine. We can talk about it tomorrow."

"Does that mean Checo is letting me hog his bed?"

"You sound so excited about it, I'd feel bad kicking you out."

"Hah! You love having me here." Max grins. His cheeks are still rose-tinted. It's impossible not to kiss him square on the mouth.

Checo savours the taste of him, his smell, his presence. He hasn't felt this peaceful in a while.

"Stay for a while. Yeah?"

"I have work."

"It's the holidays."

"And after?"

Checo shrugs, holds him a little closer. "I have a spare bathroom and you have a plane."

"You should've just said so!" Max presses their foreheads together. The air between them mingles. "Okay. I'll stay."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

And sometimes, that's all there is to it.

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burtonandtaylor · 1 year ago

Text

Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton Find Paradise On ‘Night of the Iguana’ Shoot

PUERTO VALLARTA, MEXICO — Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton have discovered paradise – and they freely admit it.

In this tiny, tropical village they have found their heaven on earth, where they can openly display their love for each other, freer than they have ever been from notoriety and criticism.

In an exclusive interview with this reporter, Burton explained that he and his Elizabeth are now in process of buying a home in Puerto Vallarta, that they have found contentment here that has thus far eluded them in the other places they have traveled.

“Half the people here,” he explained, “have never heard of Elizabeth. The other half might have heard of her, but couldn’t care less about her behavior. The natives allow us to live our lives, to act ourselves.”

He grinned disarmingly, as if unaware his statements were newsworthy, and explained, “Elizabeth and I have already put in an offer on one home. It was on the market for $40,000. Unfortunately, when the owner discovered we were the bidders he jacked up his price to $60,000 and we backed out. I am sure of this, however, If we keep looking we will find another home here that pleases us. “This much we’ve decided: we do want to live in Puerto Vallarta. It’s paradise.”

It is understandable that both he and Miss Taylor should have fallen so in love with this tropical village. For here they have been able to act much like honeymooners blissfully in love.

Local cab drivers point out to tourists “Casa Kimberley,” the luxurious villa nestled high on a rocky hillside where the famous couple live together.

Each morning a candy-striped jeep, boldly inscribed on its side with the words “Casa Kimberley” calls for Burton at the entranceway of the house. The actor jumps in beside the driver and, as the jeep makes its perilous way down the cobblestone streets, narrowly avoiding pigs, burros, and half-naked children, Burton will turn to wave a last goodbye to Elizabeth, standing smiling down at him from the balcony of their home.

Around noon, the jeep will return for Miss Taylor and drive her to the beach where she will board their boat, “The Taffy,” to make the 6-7 [corrected] mile trip down coast to Mismaloya, the location site of Burton’s film, “Night of the Iguana.”

After spending the afternoon with him, on the set, they will board the boat together shortly before dusk to return to Casa Kimberley.

During the evenings, the couple will dine alone at home or will join friends in one of the six restaurant-bars in town.

Even to one spending just a few days in Puerto Vallarta, it becomes obvious that the charm of this tropical land has had its magical effect on Liz and Burton. Where they tried deliberately not to be seen in public in both Rome and London, here in Mexico they make almost a show out of publicly acting like a couple in love. Their attitude seems to say: “We adore each other and are proud of it. We want the whole world to know how we feel.” There is not a soul in Puerto Vallarta who could remain oblivious to that fact.

I first became a witness to their love while standing on my hotel balcony one evening, mesmerized by the glories that nature was unfolding before me. The heavens seemed to be on fire. The sky, grey with the promise of night, had been touched by unseen fingers of fire and turned shades of gilded red and gold. The sun, resting briefly atop a low hanging cloud before its final descent, spilled a trail of liquid amber along the tropical waters, then slid silently into the sea.

It was twilight in Puerto Vallarta, one of the most thrilling spectacles offered anywhere in the world. The coconut trees lining the shore were now bathed in partial darkness and swayed to the rhythm of the surf as a mild tropical breeze arose.

Unexpectedly, from the horizon, a ship approached, killed its motors about a hundred feet from shore, and drifted silently, lifted gently and unprotestingly by the gentle push of the waves. The ship was the “Taffy” and from its cabin Elizabeth Taylor emerged, climbed to the bow where she poised for a moment, then disappeared into the sea, cutting the water with an expert and graceful dive. A moment later she surfaced and waved to Burton who stood at the stern of the craft. He called, “I’ll see you on shore, luv,” and made a motion to the native captain to resume the progress of the boat.

It seemed but moments later when the actress’ powerful stroke had carried her to the beach. There, like a child confident she is safe from unseen eyes, she pranced upon the sand, shaking her head to free the sea water held captive in her hair. She stood for a moment, her arms outstretched in a gesture of abandoned happiness, then skipped back into the surf, laughing with delight as the waves playfully slapped at her legs.

“Elizabeth,” Burton’s voice broke the stillness as he came trotting down the beach to meet her. They embraced, clung to each other for a moment, then walked arm in arm to an awaiting jeep. They were going home.

“Elizabeth is very happy here,” Burton confessed to me the following day. “We both feel we’ve found heaven.”

He proceeded to explain why. “Here in Puerto Vallarta we can be ourselves. Last Sunday, for instance, we decided to take the boat and spend the day with Liza on a deserted beach along the coast. At least we thought it was deserted. After dropping our gear on the sand and spreading out our towels, we looked up and noticed several families of natives watching us from halfway up the mountain. I waved and they immediately began to approach, friendly and unafraid. They paid almost no attention to Elizabeth and myself. It was apparent that they didn’t have the vaguest notion who we were. But Liza, they fell in love with her. Even with my limited knowledge of Spanish, I could understand that they were telling us how beautiful she was, saying that she looked, with her deep copper tan, like a Mexican Niña.

When lunchtime came, I asked our visitors if they’d care to share our sandwiches. They were delighted, even happier to sample our tequila. Then it was time for them to treat us. They invited us up to their hut, to share their tortillas and beans – and their local brew. Elizabeth and I sat on the dirt floor of the thatched hut, sharing the simple food that the women prepared for us over an open fire. And, while Elizabeth and I basked in those golden moments of anonymity, Liza enjoyed herself playing tag in the jungle outside the hut with our host’s children.”

For over two hours Burton talked of the life he and Elizabeth have found in Mexico. Never did he say “I”. His statements always began with “we.” Charming and suave and very much a man of the world, he none-the-less gave the impression of a person as overwhelmingly in love as a teenager smitten with his first affair of the heart.

Sitting with him in the thatched roofed bar at Mismaloya, little more than a clearing out of a lush forest overgrown with wild banana and coconut trees, he pointed in the direction of the Taffy, at anchor in the breakwater. “You know, of course,” he offered, “that Elizabeth named the boat after me. Remember the rhyme, ‘Taffy was a Welshman. Taffy was a thief? …'” His blue eyes shone with pride and he seemed all at once like a boastful small boy, proud of his mischievous behavior.

This impression remained as Burton continued to speak. Charming, a marvelous story teller, he seemed bent on disclosing the intimate little details of his affair with Elizabeth Taylor. “She is my woman,” his attitude proclaimed.

Yet, though Elizabeth Taylor might be a woman in love, a woman who is now acting like an ecstatic bride, she proved a few hours later that, like women everywhere, she has her moments of annoyance with her man, when anger and possessiveness can erase all other feelings.

On that particular day, because only a half days shooting was scheduled, she had decided not to make the trip to Mismaloya. Instead, she waited for Burton at “Casa Kimberly, expecting him to arrive home by two o’clock in the afternoon.

He, however, chose that day to rebel. A terribly gregarious person who seems complete only when he is surrounded by people, he sat talking with me for several hours, though he knew Elizabeth was waiting at home. Then, urged by his secretary who warned in whispers, “Miss Taylor will be upset,” he reluctantly arose and offered me a ride back to the mainland on his boat. We had begun to leave the bar when he spied Director John Huston and Ava Gardner at a corner table and made his way over, “Just to say hello.” It was more than an hour later when the frantic secretary finally persuaded him to board the boat and it was past 6 p.m. when we finally docked at Puerto Vallarta. Elizabeth’s houseboy, sent down to the water’s edge to try to locate Burton, rushed up to him and explained nervously in Spanish that Miss Taylor was very upset, had sent him to the beach three times earlier that afternoon to find him.

If Burton was worried over Elizabeth’s apparent wrath he gave no indication, just smiled, bestowed a kiss upon my cheek as he bid me farewell and said he’d probably see me later in town.

As it turned out, we did see each other again. That evening he and Elizabeth appeared together at the Hotel Rio, in the center of town. Whatever disagreement they may have had over Burton’s tardiness obviously resulted in no more than a lover’s quarrel for she sat beside him now, her face glowing with adoration as they sipped their cocktails and made love with their eyes. When they left a short time later, it was arm and arm, walking to the jeep that would take them down the cobblestone streets to their home.

Neither Richard Burton nor Elizabeth Taylor will discuss the possibility of their securing divorces from their present mates, yet there in Mexico such complications seem something that bothers them little. They are honeymooning. They have found their Shangri-la and if there is an Eddie Fisher and a Sybil Burton giving statements to the press in the United States – well, such things belong to another world, cannot penetrate the blissful state that has enveloped them.

Honeymooners are not uncommon in Puerto Vallarta. Its beauty and picturesque setting make it a lover’s paradise. Perhaps this is why the local citizens seem to be able to take Liz and Burton’s actions in stride. They point with pride to ‘Liz’s house, the Casa Kimberley.’ They comment on Lisa’s beauty. Yet they seem highly unconcerned with the notoriety that has surrounded Liz and Burton in other parts of the globe.

In a blue negligee she stands, waving to her lover as he leaves for a day’s work. In the neighborhood grocery shop she will wander, seeking some delicacy to delight her man when he returns home at night. In a picturesque cantina she sits, her eyes never leaving the face of the man with whom she is sharing paradise. Her hand reaches out to find his and she smiles, her violet eyes alight with rapture. Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton have found their heaven on earth. It’s possible that they feel they can cling to it forever here in this Eden-like village. They will buy a home high in the hills overlooking the sea where few will see and no one will are about their behavior. And if they must return to civilization – to a curious press, to demands from estranged mates, to a society shocked that they won’t conform to acceptable behavior — their return will only be a temporary one. And they will be able to tolerate it, knowing that they will return to the heaven they have found on earth where they can openly acknowledge their love. And where no one will judge them.

By Marilyn Beck

Published November 1963

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