Gasoline ~ Daniel Ricciardo

07| Warrior

Daniel Ricciardo was insufferable, and a heavy sleeper. His dark curls kissed the satin pillowcase next to my head (yes, he had rolled onto my fucking pillow) and his breathing was reminiscent of an elderly man with asthma. Sleeping next to him was absolutely the worst thing that had ever happened to me, and I'd barely slept for more than an hour at a time.

It was late, that I knew for sure, and the moon hung lowly in the sky indicating the time was due to change into a dark red and orange as it birthed the day of free practice. And I still struggled through the night. Neither of our alarms had gone off yet, so I had some time to sleep left.

Between us stood a barrier of pillows, the cotton sheets soothing our warm skin as our bodies provided heat even with the distance between us. The barrier hadn't been much of a protection against the sleeping giant beside me, as my arm sat below his torso. Crushed by his weight.

My arm had lost all sensation, being riddled with pins and needles whilst he remained snoring in whatever dream he was currently experiencing. His nose twitched.

I gave my arm a tug, wanting so desperately to free it when it got pulled back under his dead weight.

Though I was insanely pissed off by him for trapping my limb, I couldn't help but admire his inherent beauty; his crooked nose being kissed by the moonlight, his golden skin looking like caramel in this lack of light, his lips turned up in the corner from all the smiling he did. Crow's feet stood by the corner of his eyes, a symptom of his kindness. And, in this moment, he looked peaceful.

He looked less like the prick I knew him to be, and more like someone I could willingly spend my entire life with... that was until I noticed the teddy bear in his arm, my teddy bear. The one I had slept with since I was three years old was currently in a headlock in Daniel Ricciardo's arms as he slept. And I couldn't stand it.

"Ricciardo," I whispered.

He answered me in snores, his heavy breathing resembling that of my father's during the many times we shared hotel room's on family trips to compete in other formula feeder series. The amount of times I considered smothering him with a pillow should be concerning. But, if it's something you've endured, you'll know my pain.

Finding the silence frustrating, I tried again.

"Ricciardo, you car is on fire!" I said, my voice raspy from the few hours of sleep I had finessed, and I shoved his shoulder with my free hand. Another failed attempt of getting my own arm back.

He grunted in response, "I'm sleeping." he rolled slightly so that it was just my wrist being pinned, and I felt my teddy bear brush my numb hand. I wanted to slap him awake, claw his annoying skin and make him pay for making me unable to sleep.

I wanted to slap him for the pain he was currently causing me. I had all but given up, exhausting all of the options of how to gain my arm back. And I was getting pissed off.

Fatigue and agitation married deep within my heart, wanting so badly to hit him and scream at him until he woke up and begged to get another room. Hell, I'd sleep in the car if it meant getting a few more hours sleep.

And then, a revelation; I could push him off me with my feet.

I curled my body so that my knees embraced my chest, my corpse cold feet splaying across the muscular back of the Australian I shared the bed with, and I started to push.

To begin with, I had been considerate, I didn't want to injure him. But as frustration grew, I got impatient and decided to give my all for one final kick that rolled him off the bed like a rag doll. And I loved every second of it.

His descent wasn't graceful, and as he fell, he made a point of grabbing me in an attempt to steady his fall, but instead of anchoring him down, I ended up falling onto him, landing on his crotch.

"Jesus Christ, Ryan," Daniel cursed with me straddling above him. His hands remained on my hips awkwardly whilst my hands rested on his chest for support. My teddy bear remained out of arms reach as he had flung it nearly across the room in panic.

My cheeks flushed red with embarrassment from the position we were in, "It's not my fault you gave me a dead arm!" I argued back, massaging some feeling into my palm as I remained above him. "You're insufferable," I complained.

I stood up off the floor and grabbed my teddy bear from where he had been strewn before making my way back across to Daniel and offering him a hand. I might not like the guy, but I'm not evil.

"I can't wait for this weekend to be over," He groaned whilst he dwarfed me in his frame, "Especially since you decided to kick me like that." He complained, and rubbed the sore area of his back where I had just kicked some sense into him.

Though he couldn't see my face, I smiled, "Ditto, you're horrible in bed," I clambered back onto my side of the bed and rebuilt the pillow border.

"Sweetheart, we both know you dream of what I'm actually like in bed," his voice was deep and sultry whilst I shut my eyes and attempted to find the serenity of sleep.

And before that could occur, I made a point of firing back one last point, "At least I don't moan your name in my sleep," I lied, hoping to rile him up and riddle him with embarrassment before he fell to the clutch of sleep.

-

When I woke up, Ricciardo was showering. The steam from his shower billowed out from under the door, and my stomach churned as a direct result from the airport food I had consumed before my flight to Portugal. That'll teach me to trust vending machine sandwiches, especially the egg cress one.

I felt bile rising in my throat, my stomach hurting from the remnants of food and I knew I was going to be sick.

Rising from the bed, I practically sprinted across the room and made my way toward the bathroom door, swinging it open and collapsing to my knees in front of the ceramic bowl before puking my guts out.

"Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with you?" Ricciardo asked, pulling a towel around his lower half and standing before me dripping wet.

I tried to not stare at his body, the soft outlines of muscles dripping with water, the way his hair sat when it was wet. How good he looked after his showers, and yet I couldn't take my eyes off him.

"Sleeping next to you has made me feel this way," I retorted, wiping my mouth with toilet paper before flushing everything down the toilet. It had been years since I was last sick. How stupid of me.

He laughed, "Baby you should've seen how awful you looked this morning, drool all over your face," he told me and my face fell.

I wanted to throw the nearest object at his head, "I'll let the racing do the talking, I'll see you at the track," I said, starting to make my way to get changed and leave when Ricciardo interrupted.

He stood opposite me in his towel whilst I struggled to get my bra on, "Don't be silly, we share a car for the entire weekend," he reminded and gestured for me to turn around so he could get the clasp.

Fingers burned into my skin as he did the bra up, his hands lingering on the bare skin as he sought out everything on my back. Every bruise, scrape and freckle for him to map out, but his hand trained upwards, going for my neck where my tattoo sat.

He uncovered it immediately, looking at the Chinese script on my spine. I knew he wouldn't be able to read it, and that made it even funnier. See when Leclerc and I got drunk a few years ago, we decided to make a bet, the loser of said bet had to get the words "Egg fried rice" tattooed on them wherever they wanted.

"What does it mean?" Ricciardo asked, his breath hot against my neck as he spoke the few words. A smirk tugged at my face and I found myself giggling at the thought of lying to him.

I spun back to face him, "It means; warrior," the lie rolled off my tongue easily.

Ricciardo nodded, "Let's see how well you handle the track today."