Chapter Text
A burst of air finally broke free from him when Marc crossed the finish line. Valentino had held his breath, his lips pursed into a thin line, throughout the entire and now his lungs were screaming at him. He tried to tamp down the smile threatening to break free, fearing it being caught on camera. Despite his best efforts, a surge of relief struck him; it was a twisted gratitude that Marc was finally on top again. A restoration to where he should be, as Valentino’s equal, his greatest rival. It was easier to feel all he felt for Marc when they were both legends of the sport; it made him feel more normal about being decidedly not normal. Being in love with Marc was a difficult pill to swallow, with years of bitter feuds and rivalry between them. When had it become love? Valentino did not know, but this was easier when he knew it could not be hero worship from Marc’s side, not when he could match Vale stride for stride. It made his craziness (his obsession) easier when the man he was obsessed with was simply so talented- a phenomenon in his own right.
The TV hanging up in the garage replayed back the clip of Marc crossing the line and celebrating, Valentino catalogued every second. The image cut to the Gresini garage where Dovi, Dani, and Jorge hugged in celebration. Surging jealousy snaked through Valentino as he caught the warmth in Dovi’s eyes which never strayed from the screen, his full attention captured by Marc and a small, pleased smile growing on his face. He clamped down on the possessiveness - he wanted but couldn’t have. It hurt more than he would have liked to admit. He desired every part of Marc- physically, and emotionally. And yet it was not Valentino who Marc had chosen, because he had realised too late and fucked it up beyond repair, and now he was fighting an uphill battle just to get Marc to look at him. It was a shock when he found the screen showing his own face staring back at him once more, his eyes devoid of emotion apart from the small creases in his forehead. The picture had moved on before Vale could change his expression.
Vale watched as Marc pulled up to the number one spot and leapt off his bike; he examined the natural way Marc threw himself into the team’s waiting arms- like he belonged there. Valentino tried to quash the rising sadness; it was his own fault that he was not there like Jorge, Dani, or Alex. When he was younger, he was always taught that envy was an ugly emotion, he hated that it fit him so well. Envious of the way Marc could match him on the bike, of the way that he could come back after a bad spell and still be so good. But most of all, he hated the way other people were allowed to stand by Marc’s side whilst Valentino wasn’t.
He wanted to leave. He stayed for the podium.
The top step was made for Marc. That’s what he decided, watching the younger man dance and sing, glowing in the evening sunlight. Vale couldn’t look away, completely enraptured by his ethereal beauty. Because at the crux of it all, Marc was beautiful, in both looks and personality. He was gorgeous. Valentino felt a sudden burst of want. He tried to shake it off.
(It didn’t work)
Instead, he had continued to stand, mentally capturing the way Marc looked after so long away from winning, the tangible relief rolling off of him. His eyes are wide and bright, dancing with happiness and humour. He looks glorious, otherworldly, like the sun. Valentino was scared to look in case he was blinded but was somehow unable to focus on anything else. Marc caught his eye, Valentino smiled until Marc ripped his gaze away, looking burnt but also more alive than he had in years. Vale didn’t think about the way Pecco and Enea got to sling their arms across Marc’s shoulders as they celebrated. He didn’t think about how Marc should be his to hold and to celebrate.
(He did)
Pecco had been giving Valentino the cold shoulder since the previous night, barely acknowledging him that morning and ignoring him after the race. Luca was the same, although with less ignoring and more overt anger. Overall, it meant that there weren’t too many of his riders to debrief with post-race. He wasn’t sure when the boys had become so fond of Marc, whether it was over this weekend or before. A small part of him hated it, not knowing what was going on and feeling as though this strange, new thing had occurred without him even realising. Somewhere within him, he acknowledged that he didn’t want to share Marc; it was easier when the boys were ambivalent and he could have Marc to himself. Bez was the only one still talking to him (albeit slightly out of pure loyalty rather than wanting to), and even he looked somewhat uncomfortable whilst doing so. Vale supposed it was difficult to ignore someone when they were your boss and the owner of the team you rode for. But Marco had always been steadfast in his loyalty to Valentino, that was more apparent than ever. But if Marco’s allegiance was cracking ever so slightly after last night, then Vale had royally fucked up. Not that Valentino didn’t know this already, as uncomfortable as it was. It was painfully clear that he had a lot to fix.
*
Valentino walked back to his motorhome before the podium celebrations finished. His brain was fixated on making a plan to get Marc back. It started with pulling on every media contact he knew in Italy to find out who the hell had gotten hold of Marc’s medical records. He tried desperately hard to push down the guilt threatening to engulf him. He had started all of this, he had lit the flame for the fuse. Now he had to make it right. A few phone calls later, anyone who had even glanced at the records, or written one word, was out of their job. He would make sure anyone else involved had all lost their jobs by the end of the day. He didn’t bother hiding who was on the other end of the phone. He also made sure it was very obvious who had done it. The message would become very clear, if you valued your job in the motorsport press industry, don’t fuck with Valentino Rossi or Marc Marquez.
His fans (or so-called fans) would be harder to root out. He didn’t know when they had turned against Marc, whether it was a slow change or a sudden surge of hatred post-Sepang. Either way, he drew a blank about how to fix it, it's not like he could threaten his fans. He sat in silence for some time, wracking his brain for ideas, only distracted by the alert Chime which sounded from his phone. A text flashed up on the screens, reminding him of his upcoming media.
It hit him like a train.
His relationship with Marc and the hatred which followed occurred in part due to what Vale said to the media. Surely if he publically supported Marc, his fans would change too. There was already some change, he had witnessed it in the last few months. Marc moving to Ducati and befriending more people on the grid appeared to make him more loved than ever. Even though many people still hated him, many loved the charismatic man who couldn’t lose without a fight. This weekend was a testament to both.
He jumped out of the chair and practically sprinted out the door. Valentino’s heart ached as he heard the loud cheering from the direction of the Gresini garage. He slowed down to a jog as he neared the media centre and caught his breath outside. Once he entered the building, he hovered for some time, pretending to watch the MotoGP riders who were taking to the press. Blessedly, Marc wasn’t there, presumably he had already done his media commitments for the day and was celebrating with his team. He watched as Franky and Bes spoke about their races, a sense of pride rising that his boys were doing well. There were a lot of long looks being sent his way, journalists curious about his presence or itching for an interview. He played up his disinterest a bit, waiting for the perfect opportunity. It came not long later when a familiar reporter waved him over. He approached under the guise of friendliness, offering pleasantries rather than an exclusive. It didn’t take long for them to ask and Valentino pretended to oblige with a winning smile, just this once.
They asked him exactly what he had expected. An analysis of Pecco’s performance, how it feels to no longer ride but to be at a race as a spectator, a comment on his own team's performance. He felt the journalist pause after the last question and raised his eyebrows in encouragement, hoping it would be what he wanted.
They asked about Marc.
Valentino launched into a tirade of praise, shocking both the interviewer and himself with his honesty. He found himself reflecting on Marc’s amazing seasons and meaning every word. Marc was a generational talent, one of the greatest, able to hold his own against some of the best riders of the time. Yes, he raced hard and yes he was sometimes an idiot on track but God, he was good.
He made a decision then and there, he might as well go all in and apologise too. So he did. The guilt had been eating him alive all day, so he dug deep and let some of it show. Marc was the strongest person he knew, this weekend only confirmed it. Maybe he could learn something from the younger man this weekend. An apology would be a start; he knew it wouldn’t be enough, but it was something- it made him feel lighter. He thought that the poor woman on the other side of the microphone looked 5 seconds away from fainting. He smiled and walked away.
*
Valentino found Luca after the celebrations had died down. Slipping through the pit lane towards the Honda garage felt remarkably similar to a walk of shame. He accosted Luca as he was packing up with the team. The glare that Luca sent him told Valentino exactly how his younger brother felt about seeing him. Exasperation didn’t even begin to cover it. Alas, Valentino still dragged Luca to the side, ignoring the dramatic huff his younger brother exhaled.
“How do I make it up to him?” Valentino asked, a pleading note to his tone.
Luca rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath about stupid people. Valentino scowled and Luca relented.
“Talk to him, Valentino. You hurt him so you have to apologise. Make it up to him and for God's sake tell him the truth.” Luca grumbled, clearly frustrated at Valentino. The older man frowned in thought.
“How do I do that though?” Valentino questioned. It looked like Luca had to physically restrain himself from reacting. He turned away and exhaled loudly before turning around and pasting a fake pleasant smile on his face.
“Frankly, Valentino, it is a miracle you have gotten this far in life. You are meant to be charming and good with people. Surely that skill does not go out the window as soon as you’re within 5 feet of Marc?” Luca protested. He fell silent for a second, seemingly considering the words he said.
“Actually, scrap that, you’ve always been an idiot around Marc. I don’t know Valentino; you have to figure this out yourself. Get down on your knees if you have to don’t give me that look for God’s sake, I don’t mean like that. I mean you might have to plead, to ask for forgiveness. God knows you deserve it for what you did to him. Just don’t fuck it up again.” Luca growled.
Valentino felt like he had been slapped in the face. It was always interesting when someone said exactly what they thought to your face, and clearly, Luca had reached the end of his tether. Valentino glowered slightly as he recounted the words- he was not an idiot around Marc. He just sometimes forgot himself or got distracted. Or said the wrong thing. Or ended up screwing it up so bad that he might as well just continue to fuck it up than try to fix it. And-
Okay, maybe Valentino did have a tendency to forget his brain when it came to Marc. But it wasn’t his fault. He lifted his head to argue with Luca but by the time he’d worked through his thoughts, Luca had gone, fed up with his brother's antics. Valentino sighed, making a retreat to his motorhome to sulk until he came up with a better idea.
He spent a long time scrolling through social media, finding videos and photos of Marc winning from every angle and trying to cement a plan to seek forgiveness the didn't involve a blowjob. He tried not to let the bitterness engulf him when he saw who else was celebrating with the team. Gresini always posted their ridiculous celebrations online; Valentino secretly loved it. Marc looked happier than Vale had seen him in a long time, even as he was held and sprayed with champagne.
(Valentino refused to confront why he had spent 5 minutes re-watching that video alone, it had nothing to do with how gorgeous marc looked, restrained and soaked, his clothes sticking to his body.)
*
It had taken quite a bit of begging and bribery to find out where the Gresini team were heading to celebrate. He had tried Pecco with no luck, and Fabio had practically laughed in his face. He didn’t even bother with Alex or Dani or any of the others. In the end, it was Bez who had told him, shifting from foot to foot and refusing to meet his eyes. Valentino could only bring himself to feel slightly guilty at persuading the younger man to tell. He reasoned that Bez probably wouldn’t have cared two days ago, so what did it matter? He ended up joining Bez on the way to the club, having found a white shirt he deemed smart enough to work and a pair of black jeans. It would do.
Pecco rolled his eyes when Bez pulled Valentino over to the boys; Valentino smiled guiltily and bought them a round of drinks to make up for it. It kept them happy enough. He skirted around the room for the first 50 minutes, keeping his eyes out for a sign of Marc. He tried to avoid too many other people he knew, not wanting to draw attention to his presence.
When Marc did walk in, he was laughing, his face alight as he talked animatedly with his brother. His eyes flicked around the room, seemingly taking in the club’s deep crimson decor and ostentatious elegance. Valentino tried to blend into the background and remain inconspicuous but then he looked at Marc properly and all rationality fled him. Cazzo, he had clearly been oblivious to what he had missed out on for the last 13 years. Marc was dressed in all black, contrasting beautifully with his tanned skin whenever the strobes flashed and illuminated him. He wore a black button-down with the first few buttons undone, showing off a silver chain that caught the light and dipped below the shirt and across his chest. Black jeans hugged his ass and strong thighs before flaring into a wider leg. The red lights fell across his pretty face, illuminating his cheekbones and casting shadows across his jaw. Valentino knew he was staring, his jaw was practically on the floor. He swallowed, trying to break himself out of the spell.
His eyes followed Marc across the room and stuck as he draped his body across the bar. He tracked the brothers moving across the floor towards the table which Gresini had commanded. But he tore his eyes away when Dovi smiled at Marc, refusing to watch something that would inevitably cause him to get angry. Instead, he pulled away, strode back over to Pecco and the others and offered to buy another round.
An hour later, Valentino found himself surrounded by his boys, still stone-cold sober. He desperately needed a drink but refused to be inebriated for this conversation. Instead, he watched as the boys got progressively tipsier, and kept an eye on Marc when he thought no one was looking. Bez was halfway through a long-winded explanation of the latest cute thing Rubik had done when Vale spotted his opportunity. He excused himself from the group, ignoring Bez’s pout and Luca’s groan as he pushed through the crowd, following Marc. Valentino wasn’t surprised to see him surrounded by the older riders, as he had been all weekend. It appeared they had made themselves into Marc’s security personnel for the time being. He froze as he watched the group, the way Marc had settled into it; it made Valentino feel out of place in a way he rarely felt.
His stomach soured slightly as he observed how close Marc and Dovi were. It only got worse when Dovi plastered himself over Marc. The group were engaged in what seemed like a lively conversation. Interestingly, Jorge was holding Dani in a very non-platonic way, which wasn’t exactly news to Vale but also it took them long enough. He shuffled a light closer. When he was eventually in earshot and tuned into their conversations, he couldn’t prevent his face from scrunching up in disgust.
The blatantly flirting was one thing, but talking as if fucking Marc was something that he was allowed. And the comments that Marc was loud in bed, followed by his lack of denial. Vale baulked, he tried desperately to claw at the memories which he had repressed for so many years. Images of Marc moaning under him, once, just once, years ago. Right before Valentino had slammed the door shut in panic and left Marc heartbroken. A long time before Vale realised that Marc’s love was not unrequited. And now Andrea was the one who had Marc. The man hadn’t even won a Premier class championship, Valentino had seven.
The group before him fell silent, Dani had noticed him first. Awkwardness rolled off of Valentino; it was not a common emotion for him, more comfortable with the sour bitterness accompanying it. Marc catalogued every inch of him, from his face, which Vale desperately tried to school, to his toes, where he shifted uncomfortably in his shoes. He returned the gaze, feeling numb inside.
It took a lot of effort not to hit Dovi when he answered Valentino’s plea before Marc could, telling Vale on no uncertain terms to get lost. It made his blood boil, building within him until he felt ready to explode. But he couldn't do that, not in front of everyone; it wouldn’t be fair to Marc. He exhaled harshly, trying to calm his irritation and leaving without a second glance. All the while, he was trying to calm the anger rising inside of him. How dare Dovi act like that. Who did he think that he was speaking on Marc’s behalf and making decisions for him? Vale bit his tongue, stopping himself from storming back over in a fit of jealousy. He didn’t know where this was coming from. The sudden notion that he wanted Marc, wanted to cover him in marks and let the world know who he belonged to. It was like ever since yesterday the feelings of love were building; Marc was reeling Valentino in and there was nothing he could do to stop it. It was snowballing out of control, an avalanche of emotions and desperation. Valentino needed Marc viscerally. He wanted the soft morning and the heated nights. He wanted Marc whimpering underneath and to know what Marc’s face looked like after an hour of teasing. He needed to know how Marc looked when he was tied to the headboard, his abs flexing and arms straining. Valentino was rapidly realising that he not only wanted the insane sex but also the sweet romance and pure devotion of true love. He wanted to cook his mother’s recipes for Marc, to buy him flowers, and to race around the ranch with him.
Valentino was so fucked.
He scampered away with his tail tucked between his legs and his mind racing with dirty thoughts. Thankfully, he quickly found the boys again; they wisely said nothing concerning his mood (he hoped they hadn’t been watching). He huffed out a breath when Pecco returned from the bar with a decent pour of whiskey for him, shooting him a thankful look. He tried to nurse the drink, but one soon turned to two and before long ten. Once he was suitably drunk, Valentino took to wandering around the club, letting himself be dragged into the throws of other teams who were out celebrating. It turned out that a lot of the MotoGP personnel had reason to celebrate tonight. Or maybe it was because Italy was closer to home for most. Either way, Valentino grew progressively drunker as he was passed around between acquaintances. He didn’t mind it much; it was easier to be around people who knew the sport than the usual sponsors or stakeholders. It felt less like an act when it was mechanics and engineers who knew Vale from Yamaha rather than Valentino Rossi, MotoGP legend and millionaire.
By the time he had done the rounds and extricated himself from the Ducati team (he had avoided them until he couldn’t leave it any longer without seeming rude), it was later than he would have liked. The group of academy boys had lost numbers at some point, with only a couple of them now loitering where Vale had left them. He scanned the room and mentally calculated where they all were. Franky was still hanging around the younger Marquez; they had spent much time together tonight, much to Vale’s surprise. Luca and Mig were by the bar, nursing their drinks sensibly. According to his brother, Pecco and Bez had disappeared long ago, with Celin following soon after. Despite searching the room rather intently, the younger members of the academy weren’t easily found. He spotted Bez’s wild curls first and was drawn to their group dancing amongst the throng of people writhing in the centre of the room. Shock coursed through Vale when he caught a glimpse of short brown curls and tanned skin. There, encased in Pecco’s arms, was Marc.
(which, firstly, what?)
Marc, who Valentino had thought was with Dovi- but considering how the boys (his boys) were touching him, Valentino was beginning to reconsider. Marc looked delectable in the low lights of the club, swinging his hips to the beat. Marco was pawing at him as if he couldn’t get enough, which was shocking enough without adding Pecco to the mix. Valentino stared, watching the glistening beads of sweat dripping below Marc’s shirt collar, visible even from this far away. It made his mouth run dry as he desperately tried to swallow.
For some inexplicable reason, Bez and Pecco kept touching him, their hands on his hips (Bez) or sliding down his shoulders (Pecco). The latter leant in to talk in Marc’s ear, prompting the older man to tilt his head and then lean back against Pecco to laugh obnoxiously. Before Marc could reply, Marco had pulled him away from Pecco by his hips, forcing them into the same space to dance; Marc was grinning. Something suspiciously like jealousy clawed at him, but he was unable to shift his attention. The temptation to make Bez and Pecco ride 20 extra laps at the next ranch session was itching at him.
He stared as they danced together, unashamed of his hot gaze. He knew Marc could tell that someone was watching by the way he kept glancing around the room, but he never caught Vale’s eyes. Cele's familiar mop of hair eventually appeared over Marco’s shoulder, causing Bez to shift his attention away from Marc and towards Cele, who instantly clung to him, as usual. Valentino observed in interest as Marc made a comment which made Pecco light up with laughter. Bez craned his neck towards Marc, who had managed to break free from his grip and said something that Valentino was too far away to hear. Marc’s face dropped in confusion as he inclined his head at Bez. Vale frowned, he preferred it when Marc looked carefree and happy. Before Valentino could even register what had happened, Marc was stalking across the floor, away from a concerned-looking Pecco and a bewildered Bez. Vale looked away but not before seeing Pecco gesturing to his friend and talking rapidly with a scowl on his face.
Holding himself back from following Marc immediately was harder than he would have liked, but Vale managed to wait a whole 10 minutes before he stumbled after Marc into the smoking area. It was only once the cooler night air hit him that he realised how drunk he was. Slotting himself up against Marc was probably not his smartest idea. It was however smarter than sinking to his knees at Marc’s feet and begging for forgiveness. Because apparently, Valentino was no longer above that. He felt flayed alive as Marc's round eyes stared back at him, his mouth agape. He was begging without even consciously thinking through the words, a swirling mixture of intoxication and desperation spilling out of his mouth.
He kept his gaze fixed above him as he rambled, cataloguing the younger man’s appearance. Marc always looked gorgeous but he was particularly perfect at this angle, with Vale on his knee before him. He thought about blowing Marc until he cried, he would refuse to stop, even if he begged. He wanted to know how Marc tasted Valentino choked on the thought. He needed to get back on track, to convince Marc to give him a chance. The truth spilling out of his mouth was slightly horrifying; he would inevitably regret it in the morning, but he was too desperate to stop. Guilt ate him alive, chewing him up from the insight. It was his fault, his fault that Marc was almost destroyed, his fault that Marc almost died. It made him want to rip his hair out.
When Valentino learnt that fucking Uccio had gone behind his back and fucked things up even more, anger engulfed him. It was a heavy concoction of incandescent rage and betrayal. A mixture of anger at himself for all he had done and rage at the people who had made it worse. It was accompanied by the slicing pain that Valentino now knew Marc had faced over the past ten years. It was gut-wrenching. Knowing that he had screwed up so badly was difficult to face. It was about time that he accepted his responsibility, rather than doubling down on an old feud and refusing to let the wounds heal. He was enraged at his best friend’s actions but looking back, he could see the profound influence Uccio’s words had on fueling the fire over the years. The same fire which had burnt Marc so badly.
When Luca stuck his head outside, Valentino was almost thankful to no longer face Marc’s too-honest eyes. The distrust in Marc’s voice when he questioned Luca stung, but Valentino probably deserved it. He clambered to his feet, allowing himself to be thrust into Franky’s arms whilst Luca talked to Marc in hushed tones.
(He wasn’t sure when Franky and Alex had arrived, which was baffling).
Softness engulfed him as he heard Marc laugh, delighted to see him smiling again. He wasn’t sure when he became so soppy, maybe it was over time that Marc had wormed his way into his heart, despite it all. Eventually, Franky dragged him away, much to Valentino’s disappointment. He wanted to watch Marc laugh more, to see his face almost split in half with joy. He was handed off to Luca soon after. Everything that happened afterwards was a blur; he remembered a car journey and Luca putting him to bed. After that, it was just soft sheets and dreaming of Marc's pretty smile and big hands.
*
Waking up the next morning wasn’t fun. His memory was blurry at best and completely incoherent at worst. The last thing he remembered was being rejected and rudely turned away by Dovi. He thought he remembered a rough floor beneath his knees but he also had hazy thoughts of Marc in his bed and that clearly hadn’t happened. He just hoped he hadn’t done anything too embarrassing.
He downed a glass of water in the kitchenette of his motorhome, taking some ibuprofen alongside it. He had to check that the garage was packed before he could leave. Thankfully, it was Italy, not too far from home. He grabbed a pair of sunglasses before he left and kept his head down as he walked the paddock. Movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention and he looked up just in time to see a familiar face shutting the door of Marc’s motorhome. Nausea rose as he recognised Dovi’s soft expression and he quickly hurried away, determined to leave this place as soon as possible.
It didn’t take too long to wrap up, but by the time he headed back to the motorhomes, he was feeling far too tired. He blamed that on what happened next. When he saw Marc, looking beautiful despite his obvious hangover, he froze. He was honest, far too honest, and he accepted the offer to go inside, which was probably his first mistake. He knew he wasn’t subtle, his eyes flicking to Marc's lips, and scouting out the motorhome interior; he just hoped Marc was too hungover to notice. Valentino wanted to kiss him. A chorus of mine, mine, mine was playing in his head like a broken record. But Marc wasn't his, he knew that.
Valentino steeled himself, he could be polite and civil. He didn’t need to let the cracks, which were steadily widening, show. He told Marc the closest variant of the truth which he could choke out and was stunned at Marc’s amused reaction. He thought he might have died, or even that he was still dreaming as Marc kissed him. He wasn’t strong enough to resist, nor was he above pleading for more once Marc stepped away. How they descended from kissing to arguing so quickly, Valentino didn’t know, but it was very on-brand for them.
Marc was furious that Vale didn’t remember, probably rightfully so. But it raised Valentino's hackles, being accused of weakness, so he fought like he always did. Sometimes Valentino felt he did not deserve love because no matter how hard he tried, he always seemed to fuck it up. Somehow, it ended with Valentino standing alone in Marc’s motorhome, with a heart more broken than before and more regrets than ever.