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Chapter Text

The news drops some time in free practice at Misano. Marc has no idea how it got out or who told the media, but he knows it will be everywhere for the next week—hell, the next year.

The sun is high in the cloudless sky, beating down on Marc, and filling the air with the familiar scent of burning rubber and asphalt. He’s going for a final flying lap, trying to put in a decent time on the GP23. Pushing through the ache of his body, he toes the limit for both him and his bike. He presses on until he passes the chequered flag, finally releasing the tension he holds, unwinding like a coil.

 Only once he’s driving into the garage, towards the concerned faces of his press officer and crew, he realises something is wrong. At first, he thinks that he has done something wrong on track, perhaps he pushed someone off the racing line and ruined a flyer. He mentally scrambles, racking his brain for a mistake, for any reason he may have aggrieved the fans or his colleagues. It didn’t have to be much, these days, more than in 2015 or 2016, but they still sought any reason to string him up on a cross. Just like Valentino had done so willingly, all those years ago, sacrificing Marc as a martyr to the sport so he could be a god.

He shakes himself out of his thoughts. There is a press conference later, maybe it has something to do with that. Marc hasn’t stepped a foot wrong today, he’s sure of it. No crashes, no mistakes, and no on-track battles that people like to examine and use against him. It’s only a practice session. God, he’s overthinking because he got like 4 hours of sleep last night, and this is Italy. Rossi territory. Anxious overthinking is Marc’s familiar friend these days, with so much on the line and so few people in his corner. Press conferences can be tricky in Italy but he’ll get through it, even with the hatred of a nation against him.

Marc clambers off his bike, passing his helmet to a nearby crew member. The team are tense, afraid to look him in the eyes. That’s odd for Marc, he has always had a natural air about him that draws others in and makes them feel at ease. Even Frankie, his ever-present race engineer, struggles to hold his gaze. It does nothing to put him at ease, anxiety coiling in his gut.

They run through their usual practice debrief, evaluating the bike set-up (good, today), pace (impossibly quick for the GP23, and that make Marc glow with satisfaction), and track. It is awkward and stilted, so at odds with the usual team atmosphere which Marc has come to love. The engineers and mechanics shoot the occasional pitying glance at Marc or towards his press officer, patiently waiting in the corner of the garage. Anticipation is clawing at his stomach, making nausea burn in the back of his throat. He knows something is wrong and he can barely focus on the discussion which is wrapping up around him, too panicked to pick up the threads of conversation.

After what feels like an eternity, the crew is dismissed, offering pats of congratulations, or maybe commiserations, as they disperse. Despite his tension, he feels a wave of pride rise in him, pleased with the performance he has managed so far, and grateful that he has managed to find a home within the Italian team.

Marc pushes himself out of his chair, shrugging his shoulders a couple of times, trying to ignore the persistent ache in his right arm. He shoots a tight smile at Frankie, before making his way over to the corner of the room, where the press officer awaits him, a grimace set on her face.

A quick look over one shoulder tells him Alex’s side of the garage is blissfully unaware of the tension in the other end of the room. His brother is happily chatting away to his team, hands waving around as he speaks, a trait which they both shared. Sometimes, he looks at his younger brother and feels scalding guilt at the burden he must carry due to Marc’s failure. It is nice to see him like this, carefree and at ease.

“Marc”

His thoughts are interrupted by the gentle prompting of the waiting woman, who nods to one of the private rooms. After a beat, Marc follows her, heart in his throat despite his best attempts to swallow the nerves. She sits down with a heavy sigh, prompting Marc to follow suit, gingerly sitting on the edge of his chair.

“There’s no easy way to say this Marc”

She awaits his slow nod before continuing

“There’s been a situation. Some of your hospital reports have been leaked, all we know for sure is something from around 2015. We don’t know much about what people know. Currently the media seem unaware about most of it and we would like to keep it that way.”

Marc frowns in confusion. 2015? What? I mean obviously it’s not ideal, a hospital shouldn’t ever let this kind of information reach the general public, especially not for someone as well known as him. But why is everyone walking on eggshells around him about a hospital admission, it makes no sense, at this point he’s at a hospital more often than he isn’t.

He is just about to ask what on earth she’s on about when it hits him. His heart drops like a stone. Hospital, A&E, 2015, the aftermath of Sepang and all the shit that followed. Fuck, fuck, fuck. The press officer might still be talking to him, he doesn’t know. He feels like he is underwater, blood rushing in his ears. Heart pounding so hard he can feel it in his mouth. He sees her mouth moving, but hears nothing over his own thoughts, threatening to drown him. He needs to breathe, realising a few seconds too late to take a gasp of air, grounded by a gentle hand on his arm and kind eyes staring at him with pity.

“Obviously this is unanticipated, we don’t know who leaked this information or how they came across it in the first place. Be assured that we have legal looking into it right now, and we will keep you updated. We don’t know how much people know, its possible the reporters on site today haven’t caught wind of it yet. But they shouldn’t know much, even if they have. At the moment, we have it under control. It has only just come out in the last 30 minutes, but the press conference...”

Marc doesn’t need the look that follows to grasp her meaning Be cautious and be prepared. Right, Italy. Mierda.

“It should be fine, like I said, we are working on it to make sure it was just a minor leak about your attendance to hospital. No details.”

Marc takes another deep breath. Surely no one at the hospital would be stupid enough to share such confidential information. No, no, it is just some background noise, people will think he had an accident. Needed treatment. He trusts his team to keep an eye on it, it will blow over soon enough. He will be surprised if he even gets asked about it, with little to no evidence or substance.

Either way he has to face the press at some point. Not going will just make him look more suspicious, not to mention the hefty fine he will probably receive alongside. He drags himself to his feet, shooting her a smile that is probably a bit more of a grimace and thanking her for the heads up.

She reassures him once more that they have this under control, but his mind is already on another track. He needs a quick shower and to mentally prepare himself for the possibility of nosy reporters.

*

Marc is restless. Ten minutes into the press conference, he feels he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop. He can tell the others have noticed. Pecco keeps shooting him little glances, and at one point he swears that the younger aborts a small movement towards Marc’s knee, which has been bouncing continuously since they sat down.

Usually, Marc doesn’t mind press conferences too much. Realistically, nothing could be as bad as the tumultuous media circus in the years that followed 2015. And if it ever gets that bad again, he has gotten very good at shutting down and putting his PR training into practice. Despite this, Marc can’t help but feel like he’s in shark-infested water.

He’s so stuck inside his head that he barely registers the question directed his way, his head jerking up at the sound of his name.

“Scusi?”

The reporter gives a slight laugh, eyes sharp and searching.

“What do you have to say about the rumours of your hospitalisation at the end of 2015? There are some suggestions that this was more than a biking injury?”

Marc’s heart gives a little stutter. Shit. He wasn’t expecting that so quickly. For the first time, Marc begins to panic, questioning how much the world knows.

“Ah, I say do not listen to everything you hear in the media”, he shoots the reporters a cheeky grin as a light chuckle goes around the room. He feels Pecco’s eyes burning into the side of his head but does not look back, simply nodding at the facilitator to continue.

The next question is directed to Jorge, asking him about his championship chances this year, with Jorge giving the usual spiel about the team and his bike, talking about the decent lap times he put in today. It had been a good practice session for all of them, with Pecco leading into tomorrow’s sessions, followed closely by Marc, dragging every inch out of the GP23, with Jorge and Enea rounding out the top four. Sunday promised to be an interesting race, with the four of them positing similar times throughout the weekend.

Distantly, Marc registers someone asking Enea about working with Pecco, as the current world champion, comparing his times to the other Italian rider, as if they haven’t been working together for over a year already. Marc almost scoffs. Clearly, some journalists needed new material.

Marc’s attention is drawn to a small commotion in the corner of the room, nearest the exit. He watches as his brother enters the room, wide eyes brimming with concern. Fuck. That isn’t good, Alex must know now. Had something else happened? He has faith in his team to keep this on the down low and prevent it all from blowing up in Marc’s face, but it doesn’t stop the flash of concern shooting through him.

“And Marc another question for you”

Well, so much for that. His head whips around at the reporter's tone, searching the crowd to find the speaker. That tone is never a good thing. The same they use when they are going to ask a hurtful question about Valentino or his most recent crash on the track. He tenses in anticipation.

“Regarding the rumours of your 2015 hospital visits, there are now some reports that these visits were due to a so-called mental health crisis. Do you have anything to say about this?”

His heart stops beating. The room goes dead silent. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him, his fellow riders watching in confusion. For Marc, it is like watching a train wreck in slow motion. He looks up and catches Alex’s wide-eyed stare. He's sweating, beads rolling down the side of his neck. Shit. Fucking shit. He’s starting to think he’s not going to make it out of this press conference in one piece, torn apart by the gnashing teeth of the media.

He mentally shakes himself, unwilling to let the others see his dismay. Instead, he schools his features, wills his mouth into a flat line, and answers with his best media-trained nonchalance.

“Ah, it is nothing. No comment. This is not talking about racing; let's move on.”

This seems to wake Pecco up from his trance, tearing his gaze away from Marc and turning his attention back to the reporters. God knows what he was staring at, maybe trying to figure out if this could help him beat Marc next year, if he’s taken anything from Rossi, it would be that.

“Ah, are you going to ask us about the weekend, I would also like to talk about racing”

Some low mutters travel around the room. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He doesn’t know how they have found out, but he does know all too well that the press are like fucking vultures, circling at any sign of a kill. Alex looks like he is about to cry now, doe eyes wide and glossy, his face slack with shock and horror. Marc thinks his face might be a perfect mirror. He still doesn’t really know what’s going on, but it’s clearly worse than he had originally been told.

“Marc, following on from the previous question, it has come to light that you were admitted to A&E several times in 2015 due to suicide attempts. Do you have anything to say about this? Was this anything to do with your infamous fight with Valentino Rossi?”

Oh god, Marc is going to be sick. They went for the kill and came round for a second blow. He glances to his left. Pecco is looking at him in abject horror, his brain scrambling, trying to keep up with the carnage around him. Enea looks like his worst nightmare has come true, wide-eyed and scared, staring at Marc as if he has never seen him before. Jorge just looks confused, bafflement etched on every feature, mouth downturned.

 So much for his team's plan to handle it, it has all gone to shit in a matter of minutes. He feels like someone has taken a sledgehammer to his facade, destroying everything he has made himself be. Marc knows he is taking too long to respond, his jaw slack with shock. The world is staring at him with bated breath, his biggest secret lay on the table in front of them all, ready to be dissected. He can’t breathe. He feels wild with it, oxygen-starved and desperate. He needs to get out. He needs to get out now.

He scrambles out of his chair, sending it clattering to the floor behind him, shaking the rest of the room out of their stupor. The room explodes into a cacophony of noise and camera flashes. He is going to be sick. He makes a beeline towards Alex, tugging the younger along with him whilst he flees.

“Mierda, mare puta!

They know, they know that...”

Verbalising it out loud makes a wave of nausea hit him, sending him stumbling to the nearest bathroom. He flings the door open, leans over the toilet and proceeds to throw up everything he has eaten in the last 24 hours. Alex enters behind him, muttering in rapid Catalan under his breath.

2015 took a lot from him. More than anyone could know, more than anyone was ever meant to know. Jesus, 2015 nearly took everything from him, everything from his family. It has taken him a long time to accept that part of his life. Marc retches again into the toilet bowl, resting his forehead against the cool porcelain as he blinks back tears. Alex is pacing behind him, his angry mumbles and Marc’s harsh breathing filling the silence of the room.

“How do they know, how the fuck do they know? How did anyone find out?

Joder Marc, are you ok?”

Marc lifts his head from where he’s slumped against the toilet, looking impossibly young. Alex is the one person he would do anything for, he would walk through hell and back to protect him. He is the only one who truly knows what happened in 2015, who knows the extent of the demons in Marc’s brain. Now they will have to face them again.

“No, not really.”

It’s then that Marc registers Pecco standing behind Alex, concern painted across his face. There is no chance that he hasn’t witnessed Marc losing it, with Jorge and Enea standing not far behind. There is a horrifying understanding dawning in their eyes, the realisation that the journalists had struck gold. Marc had attempted his life in 2015 and has kept it inside for almost ten years, only for the world to find out entirely against his will. Marc knows that his face paints a portrait of pain and regret. It unsettles the others, gazing into a familiar face but seeing a whole dimension that was perhaps always there, if anyone had paid attention. All this pain is tucked up inside him in a neat little package, ripped open for greedy eyes to see. Pecco looks away, eyes guilty.

Marc feels like he’s been punched in the stomach, gasping for air that just won’t come. The other pilots probably think he is pathetic. He doesn’t think he can deal with another reason for the others to hate him. As much as he tries to rise above it, he loathes that his colleagues cannot bring themselves to like him. He cannot quite put a name to the emotions on Pecco’s face, Jorge’s sadness and Enea’s hurt are much easier to read. Perhaps it is disgust. And isn’t that ironic, the prodigy looking at him, disgusted by the consequences of Vale's war on Marc?

Marc mentally berates himself for giving so much away. He forces his eyes to go blank, pulling on the mask which he so often wears once more. He accepts the hand Alex offers him; his brother pulling him to his feet and bearing his weight as they push past Pecco. Marc keeps his eyes on the floor, unable to meet the pitying faces of Martin and Bastianini. Instead, he lets Alex guide them back to their motorhome in silence.

Chapter Text

They stumble through the doorway to the motorhome, Marc instantly collapsing onto the worn couch tucked into the corner. Alex has procured a blanket from somewhere and is busily tucking it around him, refusing to let Marc out of his sight. He bustles around the small kitchenette, busying himself with making some coffee.

Neither of their parents were able to attend the race this weekend. Marc doesn’t know if he is grateful for that, or not. They both knew, of course. It had been a testing time for the family, the fallout with Valentino, along with the public backlash, and Marc’s declining mental health had left him heartbroken and hopeless. After his first attempt, Marc returned to his room stripped bare. All signs of Valentino Rossi expunged whilst he was in a hospital bed; the only reminder was his broken heart. It had just made Marc cry harder at the time, Roser wrapped around him in his childhood bedroom. It had taken him many years to pick up the pieces after that, with several other falls along the way. But he takes comfort in the fact he is still here, life has beaten him down over and over; he has been kicked (literally), beaten, and spat out by both Vale and the media, but he always kept going. His family has made it out, they are safe, and he is safe. And really, that is all he can ask for.

Alex observes Marc with increasing concern. He has been on the sofa, swaddled in blankets, for 45 minutes with no signs of movement. His coffee mug is forgotten in his hands, as he stares blankly at the wall, no doubt revisiting the years that haunted them both. As much as Marc likes to pretend that he is unaffected, Alex knows that those years did lasting damage to his psyche; he has noticed in the way he acts around others, how he no longer trusts so easily, and how he seems to be acting around almost everyone except a select few people. He knows that his older brother harbours a lot of guilt for the past, thinking that he had done Alex some kind of disservice. Alex is just glad he still has an older brother.

At some point a Gresini representative knocks on the motorhome door, speaking to Alex in hushed tones. After they leave, Marc numbly listens to his brother relaying the extent of the damage. The media has found out about Marc’s suicide attempts in 2015, but no one knows the details, and it is hoped that it will stay that way. So far, no other records have been accessed, or at least not published. Legal is already working tirelessly to understand what has gone wrong, but for now there is nothing Marc can do. News has spread fast, and Marc does not doubt that by tomorrow the entire grid will know about how fucking pitiful he is. The thought makes his head hurt and his eyes water.

“You should try to get some sleep. The team are putting out a statement about respecting your privacy but for now there is nothing more we can do”.

Marc nods slowly, feeling adrift amongst all that has happened today. He rises unsteadily to his feet and shuffles to the bathroom. He flicks the switch and blinks heavily at the harsh lights which blind him. He almost doesn’t recognise the person in the reflection, with a pale face and hollow eyes. He shudders, it reminds him of a time when every mirror would render the same hideous portrait of despair every day. Marc pointedly avoids looking at his reflection again. He knows Alex won’t leave him alone tonight, fearful of the unhealed wounds the past has left which have once again been reopened. Instead, with a resigned sigh, Marc finishes in the bathroom and hauls himself into bed, Alex curling up on the other side. The position is so reminiscent of their younger years, filling him with a hollow kind of sadness. A heavy blanket of exhaustion weighs upon him, and that, alongside his brother's soothing presence, lulls him into a deep sleep.

*

Marc awakes to an empty bed and the sound of knocking on their motorhome door. He takes a moment to recentre himself. It must be around 8 am, given the way the light spills in from the window. It is Saturday morning in Misano and yesterday the entire MotoGP world discovered arguably his biggest secret. Marc isn’t sure good morning is appropriate.

The hushed whispers of two familiar voices filter in from the living area, clearly speaking softly to let Marc rest. He groans and blindly feels around for his phone, before remembering that Alex had taken it off him at some point yesterday. It was probably for the best that he didn’t know what the media were saying right now. Bastards.

He rolls out of bed, grabs a pair of sweats and the first t-shirt he sees (it is definitely Alex’s, given that it’s way too long for him) and stumbles into the kitchen, where a cup of coffee is already waiting on the counter. He has never been more grateful for his little brother and his worldly knowledge that 8 is too early for Marc. He’s a little shocked to see Aleix Espargaro sitting next to his brother on the sofa, both watching him with matching worried expressions. He would laugh at the sight of the two men mirroring each other in such a dad-coded way, if not for the current circumstances. Instead, he frowns back at them. Aleix rises to his feet, approaching Marc cautiously, giving him a chance to move away, before drawing him into a tight hug.

“I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

 The older man holds him for some time, Marc’s head tucked into his neck. As he pulls away, Aleix’s hands come to the side of his face, holding him gently.

“Promise me you will tell me if it happens again, I do not like the thought of you in so much pain. But now I see that you have already been through it. You should never have had to do it alone, Cariño.”

His eyes are anguished but sincere throughout his speech, observing Marc with undisguised worry and affection. Marc can’t stand it and looks away once Aleix has released him, worrying his lower lip. The older man takes this as his cue, thanking Alex for his coffee, and quietly making his way over to the door, not before shooting him a concerned glance.

“You will let me know if anyone gives you shit today, I will keep an eye out for you. Look after yourself, Marc.”

And with that, he’s gone, the quiet snick of the door behind him. Marc raises an eyebrow at Alex.

“What was that?”

Alex sighs, “He is concerned about you, hermano, he has always had a soft spot for you. He is annoyed at himself for not noticing sooner.”

“I hide it well”

“I know”

The rest of the morning is relatively normal. The people he interacts with are evidently unsure of the acceptable conduct for this situation; Marc finds it terribly amusing, in a dark kind of way. He has decided the best course of action is to pretend nothing has happened in the twisted hope that if he ignores it, everyone else will too. He’s sure his old therapist would be delighted. The security presence in the paddock appears to have suspiciously doubled overnight. People are staring, he can feel it in the way the back of his neck prickles, but no one approaches him. He doesn’t care if they must bring in the goddamn military if that’s what it takes to prevent another PR disaster.

He makes it to the pitlane in record time, dodging all signs of human life, taking the back alleys wherever possible. He enters the rear entrance of the Gresini garage, finding his crew to check in before qualifying. He is pleased with the bike set-up from yesterday, feeling confident in the pace this weekend. On the bad days, Marc thinks he will never know the feeling of winning again, that he will never experience a champagne shower from the top step of the podium, the world chanting his name. That he will fade into irrelevance, a has-been of the sport, once Valentino Rossi’s great rival, now just another name. But this year is the closest he has come in 3 years, and he is not willing to let go without a fight, because Marc Marquez is synonymous with winning, it is his purpose and his destiny. If he is not riding, if he is not winning, he does not know who he truly is.

He watches the junior categories warm up, reminiscing on those days of his career, before the pressure and before Valentino. He is glad to see David achieving so much this season. He sees a younger version of himself in the boy and it scares him, terrified that the young Colombian will get burnt in the same way that Marc did. He vows to do everything in his power to protect him but let him grow into the world champion he is destined to be. They already train together, and Marc can see the way he is rubbing off on the teenager, he just hopes that does not become a curse.  

The thought sits in his mind all the way up until he has to get on the bike. It eats away at him, makes him feel anxious. Marc tries to push it away, box it up. He wonders how long that technique will work for and when the box will finally overflow.

For now, he straddles his bike and lets the feeling of the engine humming and the sound of the track soothe him as his body takes over.

The second free practice of the weekend occurs without a hitch, landing both Alex and Marc into Q2, much to the chagrin of the Italian fans (and really, could people not let it go by now?). Marc is determined not to let the recent events hinder his performance. Despite this, he is increasingly aware of his rising anxiety about facing the others on the grid. His mind is consumed by thoughts of judgement and disgust, creating pictures of his colleagues deserting him, refusing to be seen with him as in 2015. No matter how hard he tries, even after his talk with Aleix this morning, he is frantic with worry, unable to sit still.

“You will wear a hole in the floor if you do not stop soon.”

 Alex appears from around the corner, watching him pace.

“We need to get ready. Are you feeling okay?”

Marc can’t face the idea of putting the younger through even more pain because of him, so he simply nods in agreement, refusing to meet the unconvinced look Alex is no doubt giving him.

He already has his leathers on, so he grabs the rest of his kit, and starts towards his crew, Alex heading in the opposite direction. He shoves down his fear and greets the people waiting for him with a plethora of fist bumps and hugs. He is grateful that his team are treating him as usual, seemingly recovered from yesterday’s shock. Some had wrapped him in a hug earlier this morning, others laying comforting hands on his shoulders, unabashedly showing their support and filling him with warmth. He holds onto that feeling as he prepares to ride, knowing a few more people are fighting in his corner.

*

Marc feels alive. The bike is singing underneath him, so responsive to him. Every move is calculated to perfection, cornering on the edge of impossible - he’s probably giving the guys in the garage a heart attack every lap. But he feels like he’s flying, whipping around the track on a bike that loves him as much as he loves it. He knows he’s putting in good times, his pace almost matching the newer Ducati, something which is the talk of the paddock at the moment. The move to a different constructor has brought a new lease of life to his career, quieting the doubts and prompting the whispers: “Marc Marquez is back”.

By the time the checkered flag falls, Marc is on top of the world. His mind wiped clear of the media, Valentino, and 2015. He doesn’t know where he placed, and it isn’t until he looks up at the timing board and sees his 93 at the top of the list, that he allows himself to grin.

Marc rides back to the garage, tailed by Alex, still grinning under his helmet. He is greeted with a warm reception from the team, cheering as he and his brother come to a halt. He is rained in congratulations from his team, hands slapping his back and wide smiles directed at him. It is then that he spots Dovi. His old friend is standing to the side, a proud smile face. Marc has no idea what he is doing here, but he isn’t about to complain, having missed the older man in recent years. Dovi was one of the few people who had his back all those years ago, for which he is endlessly grateful. He jumps off his bike and almost straight into Dovi’s arms, uncaring of the cameras trained on the pair.

“What are you doing here?”

“Ah, can I not come and see my friend outperform everyone in the sport that we both love?”

Marc huffs a laugh in response, a faint blush colouring his cheeks. He knows why Dovi is truly here, despite his friend’s bullshit, but he cannot bring himself to be annoyed about his obvious weakness. It is nice to have a friend who is not Alex around. He knows affection is rolling off him in waves but simply does not care -pleased at the ease that is quick to settle between them, despite the years.

“I will be with you in a few minutes, go annoy someone else whilst we debrief”

Dovi laughs at that, making Marc grin, all teeth, in return.

Debrief is a quick affair, the team are delighted with p1, and simply want to talk about the race set-up, as well the minute areas for improvement on track. They release Marc after 20 minutes, giving him proud smiles and comforting touches as he leaves. He is once again overwhelmed by his love for the team which has re-awoken his passion for the sport which has taken but also given him so much.

A quick scan of the garage tells him Dovi has found one Alex Marquez to annoy, much to Marc’s amusement. He grabs his phone off the table (he had regained possession of it from Alex earlier) and turns it on for the first time in 12 hours, desperate to check his messages since he has 5 minutes to himself. He scrolls through his notifications.

His manager and parents have messaged, the latter asking him to call them when he has a chance, although he’s sure they have probably spoken to Alex, explaining the lack of urgency. He has a message from Casey Stoner, telling him to keep his head up and to ignore the media, although his choice of words is a little stronger. Marc lets out a startled laugh, warmed by the unexpected gesture from the older man. The next text makes him stop in his tracks, confusion bubbling inside him. It’s from an unknown number, and simply reads “Stop playing games.” A sense of unease fills Marc as he deletes the message, unwilling to entertain whoever thinks they can hide behind a screen and say what they want, he should just forget about it. The final and most recent text is from Dani. It simply reads “Tell Dovi he’s a dick for stealing my thunder. Unfair advantage, he was already in the country. We’ll be there in a few hours.”

A hand lands on his shoulder from behind, and Dovi’s head follows. Nosy fucker. He lets out a cackle at the text, pulling away to laugh even harder. Marc very much feels like he’s missed a joke, and he has no clue who “we” refers to. He simply replies to the chat with a thumbs up and accepts his fate of being coddled by the older riders for the rest of the weekend.

*

The pole position high doesn’t last very long. Marc and Dovi are walking back towards the motorhomes when he comes crashing back down to earth. Saturdays are always a bit chaotic at the track. But today, it feels worse than usual, with people staring and murmuring as they pass. Some of the comments are less than pleasant. Marc tries not to let it affect him, portraying a persona of indifference, no matter how much the words sting. Dovi talks lowly as they walk, his presence reassuring amidst the harsh whispers washing over them, swelling in a crescendo of cruelty.

“-he should have taken more pills”

“-can’t believe he actually did it”

“How selfish-”

“Have you seen the articles? I read that-”

From the limited information he has been given, or overheard, Marc gathers that the public reaction to the news has been mixed, to say the least. Some people are outraged by the leak and the subsequent media frenzy, destroying any sense of privacy left in Marc’s life. Others have been senselessly cruel, spewing hatred online about his mental health or even going as far as suggesting that he deserves it. Marc swallows the bile in the back of his throat, unwilling to break now. He knows he can’t let the public see his defences crumble, it will only give them more opportunity to kick him when he’s down. He’s so wrapped up in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice who they’re walking towards, until it’s too late.

Marc hears Valentino before he sees him, talking to Pecco in hushed tones. His rapid-fire Italian is so familiar, yet also a distant memory. He feels the way his companion stiffens as they approach the pair and senses their eyes burning into him in return. No doubt Pecco has already told the older all about Marc’s breakdown yesterday. The reminder that Valentino is once more witnessing his life falling apart is nauseating. Marc steadfastly ignores them as Dovi steers them in the right direction. A confrontation is not what he needs right now.  

He doesn’t register anything is off until someone careens straight into their path, sending Marc stumbling backwards in shock. He flinches at the look of pure hatred on the fan’s face.

“You should have done it properly; you couldn’t even kill yourself correctly. The world would be a better place without you.”

Marc chokes on his breath, his eyes burning, rapidly blinking as he tries to parse the scathing words. Dovi is frozen in shock, horrified that anyone would utter such a thing. Time freezes as the people close enough to have overheard all turn to look in their direction, willing a response from Marc. Ironically, it’s Pecco who breaks the moment, face like thunder as he storms over. Marc watches in a haze as Pecco reaches them, breathing heavily and shooting a look at Dovi, prompting him to drag the Spaniard to safety. Marc distantly registers Valentino frowning over at them, a flash of unreadable emotion in his eyes as he watches Dovi tugging him away.

Marc doesn’t look back, mind too preoccupied with the stewing self-loathing in his gut and the cloud of dark thoughts in his head. As such, he doesn’t see Pecco looming over the man who spat such vicious words at him, gesturing at security for him to be removed and permanently banned. He doesn’t see the older Italian glaring at Marc and Dovi’s retreating forms, a mixture of resentment and jealousy staining his features. He does, however, hear Valentino whispering that it’s not worth it, leading a distraught Pecco away, cracking Marc’s heart clean in two, once again.

Chapter Text

He doesn’t remember the rest of the walk to the motorhomes, staggering behind Dovi, completely out of it. His mind is whirring like a broken cassette tape, the hurtful words looping. They settle somewhere deep inside his ribcage, slotting into place next to another set of familiar cruel words he has heard before.

“He has ruined our sport”.

“It isn’t worth it”

“The world would be better off without you”

His traitorous brain grasps hold of the cruelty and tortures him with their continuous echoes in his worst moments, something he has worked hard to defeat in the past.

They end up slumped together on the sofa, Dovi leaning against the armrest with Marc in between his legs, both craving physical comfort after the events that had transpired. Something odd strikes him then. People know too much about his past, more than they should, from what Marc understands. He instinctively reaches for his phone, ignoring Dovi’s protests, instead opening the internet app to check what had been released during qualifying. To say the press is a shitstorm turns out to be an understatement. Marc reads article after article with wide eyes, seeing his past laid out in black and white for the world to see.

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EXCLUSIVE: Meet the MotoGP Star who Battled his Demons On and Off Track

Details have emerged across the weekend that Mr Marquez overdosed on medication and alcohol at the end of the 2015 season

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SCANDAL: MotoGP World Champion’s Medical Records Released to the World

Read more about how the 8-time champion tried to kill himself TWICE in 2015

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Marc Marques reveals tragic past in the MotoGP Paddock: "He had to go to hospital twice. He was a mess- drinking, taking pills, loitering at the top of tall buildings. Everyone thought he would be dead by 2015”

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Disgust fills him as he reads the theatrical titles detailing his fall from grace. It is as if his life is some kind of tasteless TV drama, sensationalised for the audience’s satisfaction. Yet, despite this, he cannot stop reading, grappling with the realisation that everyone now has an opinion on the worst years of his life.

Marc comes across an article which catches his eye; he scrolls back up to click on it, interest piqued. It is simply titled “Marc Marquez’s Tragic Past Unveiled – the Paddock’s Reaction”. He knows delving into what could be a world of pain isn’t particularly conducive to a good mental headspace before the sprint race, but his life is falling apart, at this point who cares? Dovi has given up trying to stop him, instead, he is sitting quietly, his arms draped around Marc, who leans back onto his chest. Marc scrolls through the article, noting the vivid pictures it paints about his poor mental health. Whoever leaked the records certainly did a thorough job.  The article quotes several pilots; most of them declined to comment. A couple, namely Aleix, Enea, and Fabio, give general well-wishes and stress the need for privacy. Marc giggles at the reporters (frankly stupid) attempt to ask Alex if looks could kill. He’s pleasantly surprised that there are no negative comments, no sly slanders about the championship or his riding. Perhaps it’s only a matter of time. A little further down the article he finds the comments from the VR46 academy, a couple stand out to him. Luca looks sad, which is a bit of a surprise, and Bez looks wildly uncomfortable, he can’t figure out if it’s because they’re bringing up Marc at all, or if he simply doesn’t know what to say other than criticism. Shockingly, there are also interviews with Pecco and Vale, which make Marc pause. He knows that he shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. Alex would murder him if he was here. But he can’t help it, watching in curiosity as the video of Pecco’s interview loads on his screen. The interviewer begins by asking about the Friday press conference, and Marc almost drops his phone at the response. Pecco’s anger is evident from the start of the interview, he’s always been an emotive person, but you can practically see the steam coming out of the Italian’s ears. At first, Marc assumes he’s angry at the distraction or at Marc for something he has done. But no, Pecco is kind, he is adamant that the media should respect Marc’s privacy and avoid speculation, even insinuating that the media is being unfairly cruel. Marc is instantly distrustful, considering what Pecco could be gaining from this, or if he’d just hit his head on the track. He momentarily lays his confusion aside and scrolls to Valentino’s interview instead. It’s just a simple statement that is much more on theme than Pecco’s but is somehow worse than anything of the venom Vale has spewed before.

“We should be focusing on the racing, not a rider's personal life from a decade ago.”

That tracks, Valentino stopped caring in 2015, so why would he start now? It still hurts, deep down. It makes his heart feel a little more torn and ragged, the broken edges sharpening a bit more. He feels frozen.

Dovi gently pries the phone out of his numb fingers, placing it face down on the coffee table. He pulls Marc fully into his arms, holding him as he finally allows himself to shake apart.

*

It is that position which Alex finds them in, an hour later, with Dani Pedrosa and Jorge Lorenzo in tow. The latter are loudly bickering about some nonsense as they enter the motorhome, only to fall silent upon the scene in front of them, argument forgotten. Marc is still curled in Dovi’s lap, his peaceful sleeping face juxtaposed by the dried tear tracks on his cheeks.  Alex sighs, and gestures to the others to make themselves at home, before putting the kettle on.

When Alex re-enters the living room, the three older men are quietly talking, Marc still sound asleep between them. He sits  on the sofa opposite his brother, turning to face Dani as he speaks.

“Are we sure he is okay to race?”

Alex huffs in amusement.

“Good luck stopping him”

The others give him sympathetic looks, used to Marc’s stubborn antics by now.

Alex continues, looking pointedly at Dovi.

“What happened?”

Dovi begins to rehash the events since leaving the pits, desperately trying to keep his anger in check. Alex feels murderous as Dovi tells them about the harasser and the subsequent encounter with Valentino and Pecco. Judging by their faces, Dani and Jorge would be very willing accomplices. There is a round of winces as the Italian tells them that Marc has been online, finally up to speed with the media coverage. Alex is angrier than he ever recalls being, cursing the universe for hurling trial after trial at his brother, but even more furious that the people around them can be so unforgivably unkind.

“It’s no wonder he’s exhausted” Jorge laments, looking at the younger in sympathy. Alex hums in agreement, mentally noting that Marc needs extra sleep tonight.

Marc chooses that moment to begin to stir, shuffling and grumbling into Dovi’s shoulder, unaware of the matching fond looks it earns him. He never has been one for waking up, whether it’s early in the morning or the middle of the day. He begins to blink his eyes open, his face still pressed into Dovi’s neck, clinging like a koala.

*

Marc wakes with a headache and a dry mouth, feeling rung out and miserable. When he opens his eyes, he is greeted by an amused-looking Dovi (whom he has obviously fallen asleep on). Alex and Dani are sitting opposite him, alongside Jorge Lorenzo, of all people. He pieces together the memories of this morning: his remarkable pole position, Dovi coming to the race, and the messages on his phone. It has become exceedingly apparent who “we” is, and isn’t that an interesting thought? He stares between Dani and Jorge, shooting a glance at Alex, who simply shrugs his shoulder, clearly also at a loss.  He also, unfortunately, remembers the cruel words from the people in the paddock, as much as he would love to forget. He pushes it to the back of his mind and instead focuses on the others, asking the most obvious question.

“What are you guys doing here?”

“You’re my brother; this is also my motorhome”

“I couldn’t leave because some idiots fell asleep on me”

Dovi has a smug grin on his face, putting Marc at ease. He turns his gaze towards Dani.

“I was worried about you”

Jorge chimes in almost instantly then,

“Dani was worried about you”

Marc cracks a smile, enjoying the comfortable familiarity and their stupid humour.

He secretly knows Jorge is worried despite his joking, but it doesn’t stop Dani from elbowing him for good measure. They are clearly very familiar with each other; it doesn’t escape Marc’s notice that Dani doesn’t move his arm away from Jorge afterwards. He is so confused and Dovi looks smug which only serves to make Marc more confused. For now, he is happy to bask in the warmth of friendship for a little longer before he returns to reality. He is completely unwilling to move off Dovi, no matter how much he complains. They talk about racing, family, life, and everything they can think of apart from Marc and the weekend news. The three ex-riders are staying for the entire weekend, residing in the Gresini box during the racing. They have effectively promoted themselves to bodyguards, and after earlier Marc isn’t inclined to complain. Dani and Jorge sit with their knees touching the entire time, suspiciously comfortable in each other’s presence.

No one brings up the prospect of Marc not racing, knowing it will be a fruitless endeavour. Alex simply nudges him an hour before the race, letting the others know they need to get going. Marc whines into Dovi’s hoodie, not happy at the prospect of leaving the comfort of their motorhome, no matter how much he loves racing. He turns to Dovi, purposely widening his eyes until the older catches the hint. He laughs gently, removing Marc from his lap, shrugging off his hoodie and passing it to Marc, who happily shrugs it on, grinning like the cat who got the cream. Alex affectionately rolls his eyes at his brother's antics, whilst Dani and Jorge smirk at Dovi, who glares back at them.

They wish Alex and Marc luck as they leave to do the paddock rounds, not before reassuring the brothers that they will be in the box for the race (the media will have a field day). Marc leaves the motorhome first, taking advantage of the slight lunchtime lull and back-alley routes to get to the Gresini garage. The plan is to get there without meeting anyone else, but it gets derailed fairly quickly when someone roughly grabs his arm and pulls him backwards as he travels between two motorhomes.

Marc whips around, fear and fury coursing through him, only to come face to face with Valentino Rossi. He feels the adrenaline pumping through him, his heart racing and his mouth going dry. He instantly shies away from Valentino’s burning touch, taking a step away from him, whilst also straightening up, unwilling to let himself be intimidated.

“Stop playing mind games with my riders Marquez”

Marc scoffs, really? That’s what he wants? Jesus. He raises his eyes to meet Valentino’s gaze, his tone steely as he speaks.

“You think I want this? That I want my life to fall apart in front of the world for a second time? Do you think this is fun for me?”

Vale cocks his head at Marc as if confused that he isn’t cowing in submission or showering him with apologies. Marc sees the moment Valentino clocks what he’s wearing, clearly not his own hoodie, made worse by the number 4 branded upon it. In hindsight, he probably should have considered what it looked like before he left wearing Dovi’s hoodie. Oh well. Valentino’s eyes widen as he takes in the sight before him and then harden, turning cruel.

“Jesus Marc, you always have been an attention seeker. You love the sound of your own voice so much.”

Marc looks away, eyes burning, refusing to let Valentino know how much that stings. Anger rears its ugly head deep inside of him, a cumulation of all the crap he’s had to deal with this weekend exploding.

“No, no, of course, you bastard. You think everything is about you and your precious academy. You can’t even consider for a second that you made my life a living hell? That you made me want to die? Cazzo Vale, you were everything to me, my hero, the man I looked up to. Haven’t you already taken enough from me? Now you want this too. Fuck you, Rossi. Leave me alone.”

Marc turns on his heel and storms off, leaving Valentino with his mouth agape, hand reaching out to where Marc was before. The Italian watches his retreating form, filled with regret and his dying anger. He says the words quietly, knowing it's too late.

“Wait, merda, Marc”

Chapter Text

When Marc eventually reaches the garage, he’s a mess. He finds a deserted room, pulls the door closed and screams into his fist. His brain is flurried, thoughts travelling at 100 miles per hour. He feels wound up, taught with anger and pain, ready to snap at the next tiny mistake. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to quiet his brain, but Valentino’s cold words echo in the empty spaces. He buries his face into the front of the hoodie he stole, breathing in Dovi’s comforting scent, hoping to cling onto some semblance of kindness, of warmth. He refuses to let the tears fall, unwilling to give Rossi any more of himself. He will not continue to split his heart into pieces over a man who flip-flops between not looking at him or spouting cruelty.

Marc must race, he has to, no matter how crap he feels. He has ridden through worse before, he just needs to quiet his mind, get on his bike and do what he was made to do. He blinks his eyes open, his harsh breathing filling the otherwise silent room. There are teeth marks on his knuckles from where he has bitten his fist too hard, he revels in the way it burns. Pain is a good focus – a distraction from his racing thoughts. Marc steps out of the room and makes a beeline to the nearest bathroom. He peers into the mirror above the basin and feels his heart sink at the sight of red eyes which sting with unshed tears. He rubs his eyes furiously, splashing cold water over his face to remove the redness, attempting to make himself look less fragile. The water is freezing, shocking him back into his body, it makes him feel a little more in control. Looking a little less like he's about to fall apart is the best that he can hope for as he mentally steels himself to face down the world.

The cameras are trained on him when he enters the garage, pulling at the edges of his awareness as he begins to prepare for the race. The team decide to let Marc and Alex go out onto the grid at the last minute in an attempt to prevent any unwanted attention. That doesn’t stop the media from trying. He feels wrong-footed, like something is a millimetre out of place but he can’t quite put his finger on what it is. His arm aches. He shrugs it off. Instead, he focuses on his pre-race routine, ignoring the buzz around him until they need to go.

When they finally make their way onto the grid, they are surrounded by more mechanics and engineers than usual, wrapped in a protective cocoon of familiar pale blue. He keeps his head down and his game face on, ignoring any attention as he makes his way to the front of the grid, thankful that he’s there and not in the middle of the pack. He nods at Alex as the group splits, watching his brother approach his bike. He tries to keep his features neutral, unbothered, but can’t help feeling like he’s failing, the strain of the weekend weakening his usual façade. Passing Pecco in the p2 spot makes him grimace, another reminder of the earlier disaster. He can see the Italian trying to catch his attention out of the corner of his eye but refuses to engage. Reasonably, Marc knows that Pecco is not Vale, he is too calm, too rounded, missing the ragged edges that Marc personally knows so well. Despite this, he will not run the risk of looking. He does not have the capability for mind games right now, not after Valentino’s little stunt earlier. Instead, he walks away, his eyes trained on the ground, unaware of Pecco’s concerned frown behind him.

Usually, Marc has no problem focusing before a race, narrowing his universe down to just him and his bike. But today a million thoughts are racing through his head. He tries to shove it to the furthest corner of his mind, boxing up the nerves and the sorrow. But the little voice telling him that he is not enough refuses to be silenced. Instead, he pushes his visor down, blocking out the world and its pain, and gets ready to do what he does best. He can forget about it for 13 laps, he can ignore the pain – it is, after all, what he does best.

The grid begins to clear. Marc’s heart is pounding. The green flag is waved. He can feel a thousand eyes on him.

The lights go out.

The bikes roar off the line. He gets a good start, slingshotting around the first corner, retaining his first place. He feels alive as he guns the throttle, throwing his body from side to side to hit angles that should be impossible. Marc always clings to this feeling, the bike humming underneath him, adrenaline pumping through his veins, this is what he lives for.

Halfway through and Marc is doing well, he lost a place to Bagnaia on lap 2 and Martin is riding up his ass, but he is still in contention for the podium, potentially even a win. As he enters the 4^th lap, Marc unintentionally tunes into the crowd, the roar as Pecco passes followed by the unintelligible mix of boos and cheers for him. He knows he’s not popular in Italy, God he’s been dealing with it for years. He can’t help but imagine that the booing has got more vicious this weekend, pouncing on his weakness. In the moment of distraction his mind capitalises, automatically leaping to the vicious words whispered behind his back and to the hatred that he’s seen, heard, and read. It comes in flashes: Valentino telling Pecco that it’s not worth it, Valentino implying that he’s an attention seeker, that he made this up. The people who think he’s better off dead, that he has ruined the sport, or that he’s selfish for no longer wanting to live the hell that was 2015. It echoes like a mantra, carved into the walls of his brain, ensuring that he never forgets the burning hatred of those around him.

He distractedly shifts his weight into turn 10, realising a fraction too late what will happen. The back tyre wobbles, desperately seeking friction against the scorching tarmac, before the whole bike bucks from underneath him, launching him into the air and sending them both into the gravel trap. Marc feels weightless for half a second, tumbling through the air and unable to do anything about it. He comes crashing back down to earth with a thump, tossed head over heels across the track, before coming to a halt near his bike.

Fuck.

Marc lies on the floor for a moment, willing himself to not lose it then and there. He knows he should move; people will begin to think the worst – but a small, messed-up part of him barely cares. He lets out a primal scream, thankful nobody can hear him, before finally clambering to his feet, wincing in pain. He jogs over to his bike to assess the damage. His bad arm hurts like a bitch, but a quick body scan tells him that he is mostly okay, just bruised. The main collateral is his ego. His bike is a little worse for wear, but fixable, that’s what matters.

Idiota, he can't believe he got so stuck in his head that he crashed. He needs to be better. He does not want people doubting him now, not when they can already identify spots of weakness through his heavily constructed armour.

He drags his bike upright, refusing the help of the marshals, before being escorted back to the garage.

They force him to go to medical after his crash, much to Marc’s annoyance. He gets plenty of sympathetic winces at the array of bruises now decorating his body, but there is not much else they can do. He is checked for a concussion, which he has thankfully avoided, and the medics give him an ice pack for the worst of the bruising (most of it is bad). After, he slowly makes his way back to the garage, a slight limp in his step. He apologises to the crew, grimacing at the replays of the crash flashing up on the screens. He knows that people will use this against him, rumours that he can’t stand the pressures of this sport. That he’s a danger to other drivers and himself. The irony isn’t lost on him, he doesn’t have to be on track to be a danger to himself.

If he’s being honest, Marc is scared. A deep-rooted fear that his career will be derailed by this weekend, that he will no longer be known as an 8-times world champion, the baby champ, instead he’ll be the dangerous, mentally unstable rider who couldn’t cope with fame and heartbreak. He is scared that Valentino’s narrative of his character will have a lasting impression on his name in this sport.

It's Dani who eventually breaks him from his self-deprecating thoughts, pulling him into a tight hug. He whispers to Marc that the voices aren’t true, that he isn’t what they say he is, that he is a good person. Dani has always known him a little bit too well. When Marc draws away there are tears in his eyes. He knows he will have to face the press again, especially after such a disaster in the sprint. But for now, he is content to be looked after by his team and his friends.

Alex ends up taking p6, a good outcome for at least one of the Gresini riders. Marc has been avoiding the media pen since his crash and is rapidly running out of excuses not to go. He pulls Alex into a congratulatory hug, wrinkling his nose as a press officer shoos them both off to give their interviews. In a last-ditch effort, Marc sends his very best puppy eyes in the direction of Dani, Dovi, and Jorge, who, true to their word, have been in the garage since the race started. All he receives in return is two sympathetic looks and a shit-eating grin from Jorge, who has always been a pain in the ass. Marc laughs at the thought, grinning and tugging Alex with him as he leaves, racing disasters momentarily forgotten.

*

Marc is going to kill someone. The jury is still out on whether it will be himself or whoever fucked up so bad that a summary of his entire medical history ended up on the internet. (He’s kidding, it won’t be himself, he has too much to prove for that). His media appearances go about as well as expected, which is to say it’s a clusterfuck.

The kinder interviewers ask him about the crash and how he is feeling, touching on his prospects for tomorrow’s race. The meaner of them question whether the news was the cause of the crash, and how Valentino played a role, pressing on already delicate bruises. One even goes as far as asking if 2015 “ruined him as a rider”, whatever that means, he has 4 championship wins under his belt since then for God’s sake.

It becomes apparent fairly quickly that more information has been leaked. Whoever is behind this surely wants to destroy Marc for all he’s worth, he cannot believe he’d be so unlucky to have another piece of his life flayed open every time he’s on the track. The moment they ask about his arm, his pain, and his “questionable history with pain medication”, Marc simply walks out. It is surely not his finest moment of PR, but he has had enough of this weekend, of people digging up every hurt and pain he has been through and splaying him open for all to see.

The journalists clearly can’t tell or don’t care that Marc is done, pushing and shoving to get a word from him about the most recent gossip. Marc doesn’t know where to turn, every exit is seemingly blocked by people who want to profit from his pain. The world is spinning around him as tears blur his vision. He has no point of contact with the world, he is floating away, woozy with the feeling. For a fleeting moment, Marc wishes he had succeeded all those years ago, he wishes he would have put an end to all the pain and suffering in his life. The realisation rips an ugly sob from deep within his chest, his shoulders shaking with the force of it. He doesn’t want to die, he doesn’t. But he certainly doesn’t want to live life like this. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s standing there, shaking apart at the seams, before three sets of hands lead him away. Somewhere through the haze, he recognises Aleix’s gentle Spanish, clearly alternating between soothing him and conversing worriedly with someone else. Marc stumbles over his own feet, held upright by a strong pair of tattooed arms, identifying the second person as Fabio. For what feels like the hundredth time this weekend, his eyes well up; he is unimaginably grateful for the few members of the paddock he can lean upon. They manoeuvre him away from the press, earning some baffled stares from other pilots and team members. Marc guesses that it's not every day you see Marc Marquez half-carried out of the press pen. He can hear his rescuers rapidly debating where to take him before a consensus is reached to deliver him back to the Gresini garage, where hopefully Alex will be waiting.

Marc is surprised to identify the third person as Pedro Acosta. He has not interacted much with the rookie but is pleasantly surprised by his careful hands, aiding the others to get Marc somewhere safe. He suppresses a groan at the sudden realisation of the articles that will no doubt surface tomorrow. Marc Marquez, damsel in distress? At this point, he might as well give an interview saying he’s been in love with Valentino for as long as he can remember.

Marc knows that a decade ago he would have ripped his own heart out and given it to Valentino to destroy. The older rider has unscrewed all his parts - his hero devotion and childhood wonder, before piecing him back together into the splintered man he is today. He guards himself more these days, walls built strong and high to withstand the storms that always seem to batter him. He can no longer see himself falling into a lover’s arms like he did all those years ago, instead choosing to keep them at arm’s length, decidedly distrusting. He knows if Valentino came back, it would be the end of him.

Pedro disappears at some point between the media pen and the garage, leaving Fabio and Aleix to usher him through the back corridors of the paddock. Marc is aware of the near-continuous apologies listlessly falling from his lips, despaired by the idea of being so weak. He is gently shushed by Aleix, who holds open the door for Fabio and him to enter the back of Gresini’s building

It’s Jorge who notices the three men spilling into the room first. He’s out of his seat in a flash, urging Marc to sit down whilst Dani fetches some water, working in perfect tandem.

“Cazzo, what happened?”

Dovi directs his question towards Fabio and Aleix, the former of whom answers, with a worried frown.

“He just shut down in the media pen, he fully froze. It was like he’d just gone somewhere else; we got him out of there as soon as possible. I’ve never seen him do anything like that.”

“It happens sometimes when he’s been bottling everything up for a long time, especially when he feels weak. He just loses his sense of reality. It’s always scary, it doesn’t get any easier.”

Alex takes in his brother's state from where he has entered the room. He knows he needs to take Marc somewhere where he can fall apart in private, their motorhome being the sensible option. Marc needs this, needs to let it all out so that he can race tomorrow.

“Alex, is what they’re saying true?”

It’s a quiet question from Dani, but it catches the attention of all of them.

Alex scoffs, “Which bit?”

“Given the extent of media coverage, we can assume the A&E trips happened. I remember being worried about him during those years, it was like he was always pretending.”

Alex nods at Dani, confirming his assumptions. It’s Jorge who pipes up then, voice full of unconcealed fury,

“I’m going to fucking kill Rossi, I swear to god”

He lets out a string of expletives, calling Valentino every rude name under the sun. Alex can second that, and Marc, now gaining some lucidity, let’s out a brittle chuckle.

Fabio asks the question they’re all thinking, a pained look on his face.

“And his injury? It was that bad, even after the surgeries, I know he was out of it during races, I didn’t know how much pain he was in...”

Marc replies to this one.

“Agony, like red hot knives tearing into my flesh every corner. Not helped by the Hondas tendency to play buckaroo with me.”

He gives a self-deprecating laugh

“But I am nothing without a bike so still I raced”

Dovi begins to refute the statement, but Alex simply shakes his head, this is a long fought and lost argument.

Alex sighs, resigned to an evening of his brother once again falling apart due to Valentino Rossi and the scars that remain.

“Probably best we go to the motorhome then, are you all coming?”

They must make quite a strange image, seven riders, both current and retired, sneaking through the quiet and unknown parts of the track to reach the safety of the motorhomes. Marc is in the middle of them, bracketed in and protected from each side. He still feels pretty spaced out, his thoughts are a mess, and he keeps getting stuck in a loop of forbidden memories that have resurfaced. Marc registers the others leaving once they arrive at the familiar blue motorhome. He clutches Dani’s jacket before he can walk away and makes the three retired riders promise to return, feeling too fragile not to have the comfort of safety in numbers. He turns towards Aleix and Fabio and quietly thanks them for their help before turning back towards his brother.

Alex helps Marc inside the motorhome, pushing him toward the shower, and telling him to clean up whilst he talks to the team. Marc turns the water temperature up as high as possible, hoping it will soothe his aching muscles since it can’t do much for his current mental state. After he’s done, he wraps a fluffy towel around his waist, heading to the bedroom to change whilst Alex showers. He feels more physically grounded now but inside he’s in emotional turmoil. He feels like he’s been cut loose, unmoored on choppy water, unsure where he can sink his anchor to weather the storm. For now, he decides his motorhome and his younger brother are the safest place.

Alex is already there, washed and dressed, when he re-enters the living space. He has a little pinch between his eyebrows as he stares at Marc in concern; clearly, Marc’s attempts to cover up his misery are unsuccessful. He winces as he approaches the sofas, his brother instantly picking up on that too, damn having a codependent relationship with a sibling, they know too much. Thankfully, Alex says nothing, he just helps lower Marc onto the cushions, before turning to grab the bruise relief cream, looking at Marc pointedly until he takes his shirt back off. Alex cringes at the array of watercolour blues and purples painted across Marc’s skin, still uncomfortable seeing Marc in pain, even after all these years.

“How’s your arm?”

Marc hums, considering,

“It’s pretty bad, I don’t need medication through”

Alex gives him another look, understanding but slightly exasperated.

“Marc, you still sometimes need the medication. You are not who you were then. You are in pain; you do not need to just live in it.”

Marc contemplates his brother’s argument, smiling slightly at his unwavering support.

“Not yet, I will take them later, maybe”

Their conversation is interrupted by the motorhome door opening, Dovi slipping inside and shutting it behind him. His eyes instantly shoot to Marc, who is still shirtless on the sofas, his eyes widening as he takes in the tanned skin of the Spaniard. Marc still looks gorgeous, even when battered and bruised. The thought makes him feel guilty for a second, he never wants Marc to be in pain. But still, it doesn’t take away from his attraction. Alex rolls his eyes at the pair, coughing obnoxiously as Marc’s cheeks flush pink. Dovi grins at Marc, still unabashedly staring as he shrugs a t-shirt and hoodie back on, glaring lightly back at the Italian. Look, Dovi’s not blind, he knows an attractive man when he sees one (he always has), but he is also well aware that Marc is still a bit in love with Valentino, plus he would be stupid to risk such a friendship. But he can still look and the younger still preens under his gaze.

Marc tries to will the blush away from his cheeks, well aware of Dovi’s smug look, and frankly, it’s slightly unfair that the man still has that effect on him, he thought that he was over that part of his life. But he can’t deny that he enjoys the older man's attention.

Dani and Jorge return about ten minutes later, and they settle together on the couch, joining the others. Marc feels his brain quiet, the volume of his thoughts turned down a few notches. His whole body aches after the crash, each movement burning his muscles. He eventually gives in to the pain, flashing Alex a pleading look, spurring the younger to fish out the appropriate number of painkillers and hand them to his brother with a glass of water. They’re the strong ones that make Marc a little hazy, a little more fluid and uncaring as they kick in. He ends up settled between Dovi and Jorge, leaning heavily on the older Spaniard, his legs across Dovi. Dani is on Jorge’s other side and Alex sits opposite.

Marc lets himself drift.

*

The conversation is soft. The TV is talking to itself quietly in the background. Marc has lost track of all threads of the topics once more, tangled like balls of yarn in his brain. He allows the pain medication to soften him as he drifts amongst his thoughts, ebbing and flowing like the sea. He feels Jorge’s (Dani's?) hand gently petting his hair and Dovi's warmth pressed against him. It’s peaceful. Somewhere in the back of his mind, alarm bells are sounding at how vulnerable and weak he’s being in front of the others, but for now, he ignores them, allowing himself to float.

The weekend has been a mess, he will be the first to admit it. The fact that his medical records have been leaked would be bad enough, even if they didn’t contain all his biggest secrets – his mental health, the extent of his injuries, his weakness. The world has seen what 2015 took from him, about his overdoses, and subsequent admissions to A&E. They know that the doctors had looked to Alex to make sure his older brother stayed alive another day. Back then, he lived life as if he didn’t care to see another day, throwing himself into reckless situations with abandon. He was indeed a danger on the track to himself, but he never, ever, meant to drag anyone else into it. The only thing he could clutch onto was his success on the bike, it was all that mattered to him. In 2015 and the years that followed Marc would leave everything on track, he would go out not caring if he returned to the garage, and we he came back time and time again, he was empty and hollow.

Valentino had taken everything from him, everything but his riding. His hope, childhood dreams, and will to live had been snatched by jealous hands. The media had torn him and his family to shreds. His loved ones were scared to leave him alone. Marc just felt hollow. Nothing mattered to him but winning. He thought that maybe people would consider him worthwhile if he was winning. Valentino would look at him again. Would tell him he was wrong, and that he was sorry. The day never came. Instead, Marc was left with the demons, locked in his mind and told to make his own way out.

Then one day, finally, the light was shining at the other end of the tunnel. After the depression, after the suicide attempts, and the self-destruction. After he had glued together the shattered pieces of himself into something that only partially resembled the old him, before Valentino Rossi. Then Jerez had happened. He came off his bike so fast he didn’t truly remember it happening, just the searing pain and a useless arm hanging limply by his side as he tried to mask the pain from the world. 

The next few years were a haze of surgeries, pain, riding, not being able to ride, pain medication, and more encompassing sadness. He knows somewhere on the internet there is now a long list of medications he was on for that pain. No doubt there would also be records of the countless doctors who were concerned about him ignoring the pain, or not taking his pain meds. It was some twisted form of self-flagellation that he told himself he should live with the burning agony to prove that he was strong. He was too weak to do it in the races and instead would take medication before, just so he could make the corners, followed by copious numbers of painkillers after, knocking him out clean. He would be so doped up that his brother would have to look after him, feeding him and putting him to bed. Marc still remembers the phantom pain that followed him everywhere, despite the medication. At some point, he took too many and became unresponsive. Alex had to rush him to the hospital. From that day on Marc had vowed to be more sensible, if only for his brother's sake. 

The memories make him feel hollow, the empty space in him aching for his loss. He does better these days, but it has taken a long time to reach this point, with countless hours spent talking to professionals about his pain and his feelings. He hates that there are records of so much of this online, that anyone can read about the worst moments in his life. It makes him feel weak. Unworthy. He stays there for some time, revisiting the pain and trying to stay tethered to real life, rather than consider the endless possibilities in a different universe. He doesn’t know when he starts travelling down dark paths, but it makes him shake with sorrow. He feels part of himself shatter, right there in his motorhome in Misano.

Chapter Text

Alex had warned them that this is how Marc deals with things. He bottles it up until he can’t anymore, and then he goes somewhere private where he can lick his wounds and let himself fall apart. Watching Marc be so vulnerable, his usual mask of untouchable indifference falling away, is devastating. Jorge holds Marc closer as he trembles, small tremors wracking his frame. He looks incredibly young, curled up in between the older riders. Marc is completely lost in his thoughts now, distress radiating off him. He has been mostly silent, apart from the occasional miserable noises. Now though, he begins to cry, his face moving to press into Jorge’s shoulder as his body shakes with the force of his sobs, uncaring of who he’s clinging to. Marc and Jorge have never been that close, but the older man feels protective of him, in part because the 2015 fallout centred so much around his championship win, but also because of Dani’s soft spot for Marc. Jorge knows it was a big sign of trust for Marc to allow him to stay and witness this, especially from a man who is usually so guarded.

It’s unclear what Marc is imagining in the depths of his mind, but he has begun to slur words in between his sobs. Most of the words are incoherent, but Valentino’s and Alex’s names are clear, alongside the interchanging wrecked pleas to both end his suffering and let him live. Seeing so clearly the devastation Marc has suffered is horrific for them all, but Alex most of all looks gutted, like his heart has been shattered. He has heard those pleas before, back in 2015 when he found Marc and when he had saved his life.

It is this that prompts Jorge to gently shake Marc to awareness, knowing the pain is too much, too dark. Once the medication wears off, he will be ashamed of his weakness. It does not matter how natural or understandable his reaction is, especially after all the shit he has had to deal with; he hates vulnerability. The only thing his friends can do is sit with him during the fallout.

“Marc”

The younger man stirs slightly, choking on a breath as he sobs. He clutches at Jorge weakly, trying to catch his breath in between his cries.

“Cazzo, Marc, you’re ok, you’re ok.”

*

Marc returns to his body with a pounding head and a sore throat, which only ever occurs when he has cried himself dry. He’s a mess; the memories which assaulted him are still at the forefront of his mind, making him feel sick to the stomach. He is in the weird stage where the medicine is wearing off but still making him feel hazy; everything is soft around the edges. He doesn’t know how long he’s been out. He rubs at his face and notices his cheeks are wet. He would usually be mortified by the idea of crying in front of everyone, but he can't bring himself to care in the circumstances. He feels wrung out and over-tired. He knows his eyes will be red and his face blotchy and he frowns at the thought. Dani breaks the silence first, handing Marc some water.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like shit, but also somehow better. I’m sorry for losing it like that-”

Dovi interrupts him before he can finish that thought, fury simmering in his voice.

“Don’t you dare apologise. I don’t care what he taught you about having to hide away, but you don’t have to with us. We know you’re strong, but you don’t have to be strong right now. Not here, not with us.”

Marc gulps back more tears and instead smiles sadly at Dovi, unwilling to touch upon the reference to Valentino. Instead, he turns to look at his younger brother, who looks distraught; it makes him frown slightly. He hates the thought of causing his brother’s sadness. In Marc’s opinions, it is the worst thing he can do, and he has done it often in the last few years. Guilt spikes through him. Alex catches his eyes and shakes his head, knowing exactly what Marc is thinking, as fine-tuned as they are to each other's emotions.

“It’s not your fault, germà. I would take all your pain if I could.”

It makes Marc’s heart break a little. He addresses all of them, his little group of friends, of protectors. These people have seen him at his worst; they have refused to leave when Marc was on rock bottom, and they stuck with him when the world hurled abuse at him. Without them, he would be unmoored in the ocean, drowned by the waves.

“Thank you for staying.”

It’s Jorge who answers.

“Of course.”

The waning effects of the medication become clear as the bruises splashed across Marc’s body begin to ache. His shoulder is sore, and the muscles surrounding the joint are tight and stiff, causing him to shift uncomfortably. Alex catches his brother’s poorly concealed winces and hands Marc the rest of his approved dose without a comment. Marc tries to protest; the thought of having more drugs, of needing more, makes him feel queasy. Marc’s relationship with the medication is still rocky. It makes him feel weak and defenceless. It reminds him of dependence, hospital visits, and overdoses. Every time he has those little white pills in his hands, he sees Alex’s blurry face hovering over him, shouting his name, his panic choking him. He hates it. But he knows that if he wants to sleep tonight, he needs to take the stronger stuff that he is prescribed. After Jerez and his arm, normal ibuprofen doesn’t do much for his pain. Alex's eyes are pleading, desperately attempting to convey that Marc is safe here. That he can be vulnerable; he doesn’t have to sit with the pain. The others watch on sadly. Dani feels guilt clawing at him that he didn't notice in 2015 and beyond. When they were still teammates, Marc wouldn’t take the pain medication he was given. Dani always thought it was some weird pleasure of the pain that came from racing and crashing. And then later, perhaps a sick self-punishment for making a mistake. Although he now realises the latter is partially true, he is kicking himself for not digging up a further meaning. He’s not the first to notice Marc’s aversion to medication; it had been a weekly fight with Honda between 2015 and 2020. Nobody was aware of the reason. Why Marc went from hating the sight of the tablets to taking as many as he possibly could after Jerez was less of a mystery. For Marc Marquez, when choosing between not riding or traumatic memories, he’ll always choose the emotional anguish. He swallows the pills.

Alex smiles gently at him, pushing a container of pre-prepared food towards him. Marc turns up his nose; he had already eaten something earlier.

“Eat, you’ll be high as hell if you don’t”

“Not hungry”

Marc pouts, and Christ Alex forgot how obstinate and immature his brother could be, especially after taking his medication. The image of 31-year-old Marc behaving like a toddler makes Dovi chuckle in amusement.

“Marc, you have to eat something-”

“No.”

“Marc, for God’s sake, you can’t just not eat.”

“But I don’t want that. I’ll have a protein bar.”

Their fight is interrupted by a loud knock at the door and a voice calling from outside.

“Marc?”

 Anxiety grips Marc, argument forgotten. Instead, he imagines another fervent Rossi fan clawing at their door. Alex jumps to his feet, freezing as the voice speaks again.

“Marc, come on, I know you’re in there, the lights are on.”

Confusion engulfs Alex as he approaches the front of the motorhome, trying to place the somewhat familiar voice. He cautiously unlocks the door and peeks outside, blinking against the darkness. Shock colours his features, his eyes widening as he stares before he comes to his senses and attempts to slam the door shut. The only thing keeping it from closing completely is the foot of their surprise visitor.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Alex practically growls

“Is Marc here? I want to talk to him. Please.”

Dani joins him at the door, ready to help if things get out of hand. Pecco glances between the two Spanish men before letting out a melancholy sigh. Bez is fidgeting behind the world champion, looking incredibly uncomfortable. Alex definitely fancies slamming the door then, even more unimpressed by the sight of the younger Italian.

“I hate that all of this has happened, and I hate even more that we’ve been pitted against each other for no reason. I just want to talk; please can I come in?”

Pecco looks so forlorn standing outside their motorhome, his face open and honest. Marc must recognise the voice more than Alex does, as he calls out to his brother.

“Let him in, Alex.”

Marc is most likely not thinking clearly, and Alex is on the verge of saying no. Instead, with a disgruntled sigh, he steps aside to let Pecco in, looks at Bez, and then grudgingly concedes that he cannot tell him to fuck off. After shooting an exasperated look at Dani, he follows him back to the group of athletes lounging on their couches.

It turns out 7 fully grown adults are a few too many in the cramped space. Pecco takes the empty seat next to where Alex has sat back down, Bez awkwardly squeezing next to him. Marc stares with wide, clouded eyes, his hackles raised; he wasn’t expecting Bez.  Although his relationship with Pecco is fairly neutral (probably due to his ambivalence to the whole Valentino situation) Bez and Marc have never been on good terms, the younger always jumping at the opportunity to defend his mentor. Marc frowns at them, untrusting, while his friends protectively shift closer to him. Clearly, from their baffled expressions, Bezzecchi and Bagnaia did not expect to see Marc huddled with Andrea Dovizioso and Jorge Lorenzo on the sofa.

*

Pecco is trying his hardest to comprehend the scene before him; he had not anticipated meeting the three retired riders alongside the brothers. He tilts his head slightly, examining the way Jorge and Dovi appear exasperated but pleased to have a clingy Marc Marquez sprawled on them. Marc himself looks pretty content at their proximity, which is strange; he didn’t think Marc was that close to either of them. Bez and he have clearly intruded, obvious from the disarray of everyone in the room. Marc has been crying, which is surprising in and of itself. Additionally, he appears to have taken some pretty strong painkillers – unsurprising after his crash but surprising after the most recent news reports. He turns towards Alex to voice this, but the younger Marquez beats him to it.

“He doesn’t need supervision these days, but if he is bad or, you know, unhappy, I keep his medication and watch over his dosing. He’s fine.”

Pecco nods in understanding, some of his concern lessening. An awkward kind of quiet falls over the group, no one knowing what to say. Strangely, Marc cannot guess the meaning for their visit, too used to other riders only turning up to pick a fight. Pecco is not one for dramatics, preferring to reign in his emotions, unlike his mentor and his friend. Marc breaks the silence first, curiosity beating pride.

“What are you here for, Bagnaia?”

That earns him a wry smile.

“I want to know if you’re okay.”

“Why do you care?”

The others tense in anticipation as Pecco visibly steals himself. He has found the last 24 hours difficult, fighting an internal battle of morality versus loyalty ever since the fateful press conference.

“I don’t hate you, Marc, and I don’t want to. Honestly, I think with time, maybe next year, we could be friends. I respect your talent, and yes, of course, sometimes I think you ride like a maniac, you take risks, and you are brutal on the track. But that is what makes you so good, so impressive. It is why you have 8 championships; I would be a fool to disregard that. Not only that but you love fiercely. I have seen the way you treat your friends and family, and I admire that.”

Marc thinks he might be dreaming; he pinches himself to be sure. Jorge notices and pushes his hand away with a scowl.

“Don’t lie. You all hate me because of him and his lies. I do not need you messing with my head as well. I see the way your academy copies him, echoing his venom, believing every word and taking his side. My life was hell back then, and you weren’t there to witness it. He ruined my life and tore everything from me. I know he thinks that I ruined his career and whatever other poison the man he calls a best friend fed him. I know he was angry and upset. But I was so young. It has been a decade. He won’t leave me alone. Don’t you understand? I raced to die; I risked it all in a passive attempt to not return to the pits. I just wanted him to look back at me; I wanted my hero to forgive me. Then after Jerez, when he didn’t even say anything and I gave up hope, I just took medication to cope. But Valentino and your precious academy can’t see that. No, instead I am reckless and selfish, only thinking of myself. It is not fair; none of it is fair.”

He feels Jorge tense underneath him and that revelation and knows that he has shared too much, but it is too late now. Pecco is observing him with sad eyes and Bezzecchi looks horrified.

“No, Marc, I do not hate you. I am sorry for the loathing you have felt. People like to push Valentino’s legacy onto me. We are not the same person. This is not my battle, and I refuse to be sucked into Vale’s fights from before I was even on the track. It is stupid.”

His eyes are glazed over and wet as he looks directly into Marc's. The anguish in them makes Marc flinch.

“My sister fought similar battles; it was the hardest time of my life.”

He meets Alex’s eyes, sharing a look of understanding at their joint hurt.

“I know you don’t believe me; I see that you have been hurt before. I hate that you have experienced such awful things, and I hate even more how you are being treated for it now. I am sure Alex feels how I do about Carola; it was the worst pain in the world. I would have given my life ten times over for her. It still hurts you and maybe it will always be raw, but I wish it was not like this.”

Bez lays a hand on Pecco’s shoulder, a show of silent support, prompting Marc to turn towards the youngest Italian.

“And you, Bezzecchi? I know you hate me; you have made that abundantly clear, so why are you here?”

Bez looks away at the accusation, guilt filling him. It is not in his nature to question someone he is loyal to.

“I- I realised I maybe took too much at face value. It is true that I did not like you, or more so the way you ride. But I also didn’t understand you or what you were going through. I guess that I want to make amends for that. And I did not want to leave Franci alone.”

Marc hums, considering Bez’s offer, before he nods, too exhausted and intoxicated to give it any more thought. Whatever, if Bezzecchi wants to be here, then fine, so long as he doesn’t cause any more pain. Rather, Marc returns his attention to Pecco with genuineness in his eyes.

“I’m sorry about your sister. It is difficult. I hope she’s in a better place now.”

Pecco’s eyes widen in shock, and Marc huffs out a laugh.

“She’s doing better now, thank you. I think you will get on with her well next year; she comes to all the races with me and the team.”

The Italian smiles tentatively, and Marc smiles back, quietly pleased about this admission from his future teammate. Bez glances between them with a frown, still unsure about the tentative truce they have formed. Instead, he turns towards Dovi, who is still eyeing him suspiciously, and shoots him his very best puppy eyes. The older man rolls his eyes at the display before roping Bez and Pecco into a conversation in rapid Italian about the season so far. Dani and Jorge are whispering quietly, the latter still petting Marc’s hair gently. The atmosphere has returned to its tranquil state, once more lulling Marc into a hazy headspace.

Concern is vibrating through Alex as he watches his brother doze. He can’t help but feel like this has all been a little bit too easy. The boys had looked flustered when they turned up, like they had hurried over, as if something had happened just beforehand. He tries to shake off the feeling, standing up and heading into the kitchenette. He grabs a protein bar from the cupboards and chucks it at Marc when he re-enters the main room, causing his brother to startle and glare at him. Dovi snickers at their antics; of course Alex had not forgotten about their previous scrap, much to Marc’s annoyance.

“Eat it.”

Marc scowls but dutifully rips open the packet and starts munching the bar, not before sticking his tongue out at his brother.

“So mature, Marc.”

This prompts a fit of giggles from the older as he continues to eat. Bez and Pecco look on in bewilderment at this version of Marc, the drugs making him more relaxed than they have ever seen. They are shuffling awkwardly as if they’d be kicked out at any minute, feeling a sensation of imposition at seeing the soft person in front of them. Marc rolls his eyes, looking strung out but content.

“Stay?”

And that settles it.

*

In all his stubborn glory, Marc refuses to move off his friends, citing comfort and fatigue as justifications. Alex grumbles good-naturedly about his perpetual clinginess on pain medication, prompting Marc to snuggle closer to Jorge, rubbing his face into the older man’s shoulder and startling a laugh out of him. Pecco looks at Dovi questioningly, his forehead furrowed into a frown, looking for any indication of jealousy in the older Italian but not detecting any. Jorge instantly notices and does not attempt to conceal his laughter laughter.

“Do not worry about it. Dovi hogs Marc the rest of the time; I am allowed him now whilst he is still high as a kite”

Marc pulls away to pout at him, denial on his lips. Before he can begin his argument, though, Alex speaks up, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Tell me about it; you should have seen them earlier. Dovi was practically eating Marc alive with his eyes; it was fucking ridiculous.”

Marc goes bright red at this comment, spluttering out an excuse. Dovi just looks unabashedly smug, meeting Alex’s eyes.

“Hey, when there’s an attractive shirtless man on the sofa when you enter the room, what else are you meant to do?”

Marc directs his glare towards Dovi, an unimpressed frown on his face at the betrayal, but frankly, with the medication softening him, he just looks cute. Dani and Jorge are cracking up at the thought, which only causes Marc to get more annoyed, his cheeks flaming hot.

“Ah, I did not know that you two-”

Both Dovi and Marc jump to correct that assumption. Stumbling over each other to assure Pecco that they are not dating, despite what it looks like. Dani has been suspiciously quiet for most of the conversation, only now turning towards Marc with an insolent smile, meaning that he’s about to say something that Marc won’t like.

“Didn’t stop you from fucking in the past.”

You could hear a pin drop. Alex is whipping his head between his brother and Dovi, his jaw dropped in shock. Marc somehow goes even redder before shoving his face into his hands and groaning, confirming Dani’s statement and prompting the entire group to lose it. Dovi just looks proud and completely unashamed, turning back to Jorge and Dani with a raised eyebrow.

“Like you two can talk.”

“Touché.” replies Jorge with a shrug, hand on Dani’s knee.

Alex feels like he’s losing grip on reality,

“When? When the hell did you two hook up?”

“Ah, 2017, 2018, on and off” answers Dovi.

The others are laughing hard now, even Bez and Pecco giggling at the horrified expression on the youngest Marquez’s face.

Alex speaks once more, recovering quickly as though he is clearly used to his brother’s antics. There’s a teasing lilt to his voice,

“Jesus Marc, what is it with you and shagging older men?”

Pecco chokes at that comment, wheezing a breath through the shock. The others are basically in tears and even Bez is grinning. Marc just looks at his brother’s smirking face and promptly lobs a pillow in his direction - it hits him in the face, causing Marc to crack up. When they all catch their breath, Pecco broaches something that has played on his mind all day.

“Valentino had mentioned something earlier, about you and Dovi-”

Pecco immediately realises his mistake in bringing up Vale. The room pauses awkwardly, and all eyes turn to Marc, whose eyes are still foggy, his limbs lose. It causes him to speak without thinking.

“Ah, he is being a dick; he saw me in Dovi’s jumper and jumped to conclusions. Lord knows why he cares.”

“When the fuck did you see Valentino?”

“Ah, just before the sprint race, he cornered me, spilling some bullshit about ruining the race and being attention-seeking. You know what he is like. He always has loved to make sure I feel small.”

He turns his doe eyes towards Alex,

“It still hurts to hear him say those things about me. It hurts to look into his eyes and see fury and hatred. Not as much as it did then, but still”

Pecco realises then just how out of it Marc must be to let that slip. He gulps, uncomfortable with the pain in his voice, pain that he would usually hide away from the world. Bez looks away. Watching tonight’s interactions brings some new perspective to the academy riders- the quiet beginnings of doubt about their unquestioned deity. It’s difficult to reconcile Vale, their selfless teacher and friend, to Valentino Rossi, who had a rivalry with Marc so fierce the younger had been left picking up the pieces. The Marc in front of them is not the dangerous, deceiving rider they were taught about. This Marc looks at his brother and friends like they hold the universe; he is strong but soft around the edges. He is funny and unabashed in his affection. He loves fiercely and is loved unconditionally in return, a true sign of his character.

Alex is looking at his brother with such sadness in his eyes, reflecting his pain. He does not respond to Marc; he just holds out his hand. It is Jorge who speaks instead.

“I was so angry at Valentino in 2015. So angry at myself for not warning you. I saw it coming from miles away because Rossi could never deal with threats to his success.”

Bez begins to open his mouth, but Pecco elbows him, hard, well aware that now is not the time to stick up for their mentor, no matter how difficult it is to hear. Jorge goes to continue but is interrupted by another forceful knock on the door; it’s Alex who yet again opens it, finding himself face to face with an uncomfortable-looking Luca. The night is getting weirder and weirder.

“Is Pecco here? Or Bez? Nobody knows where they’ve gone.”

 Alex opens the door wider, letting Luca see the two Italians on the sofas.

Luca steps inside, shutting the door softly behind him after glances outside worriedly. He gives the boys a pointed looks as he urges them up.

“Come on, we need to go!”

“What why?”

Bez was just starting to feel comfortable in this company; he doesn’t particularly want to leave right now. Luca looks away,

“Look, we just really need to go.”

There is another harsh knock on the door before it flies open. Valentino is standing at the threshold, staring blankly at the spectacle before him.

“What the fuck is going on?”

Chapter Text

The room holds its breath. Everyone is on high alert, their wide-eyed stares dancing between different group members, cataloguing every reaction. They are collectively choking on the escalating tension balancing on a razor’s edge, threatening to asphyxiate them all. Valentino studies the scene before him, blinking in confusion at the strange mix of people filling the small space. He raises his eyebrows at his boys, who shuffle awkwardly; Bez refuses to meet his eyes, staring steadfastly at the floor instead. Pecco and Luca do not share the same reservations, meeting his stare head-on. He is astonished to find unrestrained anger in Pecco’s eyes, and he questions what lies he has been fed to him by the surrounding men. He rips his gaze away, instead turning to assess the wider room.

Contrary to popular belief, Valentino is merely a person and, therefore, experiences very human emotions. Watching Marc fly off his bike, somersaulting in the air before slamming into the gravel, made his heart drop and his breath catch. When he didn’t make a move to get up, a decade’s worth of resentment and pain promptly disappeared as overwhelming fear choked him. However, the guilt that has been souring in his stomach since his run-in with Marquez earlier is beginning to evaporate, replaced by the scorching rage that only Marc can illicit. Valentino observes how Marc has thrown himself on top of Dovizioso and Lorenzo, his teeth grinding in outrage. He cannot believe his insolence – to act like the world has done him some injustice; to fall into the arms of anyone who will offer; turning Valentino’s own riders against him. He seethes at the thought. How can Marc sit there acting so pleased when he has made Valentino feel this way? How dare he trick him like this?  Alex is standing to the side, unnoticed, with his fists clenched by his sides, hot fury spilling over. Who the hell does Valentino think he is turning up here, after everything he has done?

Valentino glances at Marc again, pausing at what he observes. There is something odd about the way he is holding himself; his usual mask of cold indifference has fallen away, replaced by wide-eyed worry. Marc is coiled tight with tension and has been since he registered Valentino. His gaze is darting around the room, anxiety practically dripping off him. It makes no sense. He does not look pleased, or smug. He is not ready for a fight. Instead, he seems scared, defeated, and even drained, like he has nothing to give. Valentino deflates slightly at the lack of provocation he finds from the group, none of this makes sense.

Marc is still slouched on the couch and is visibly panicking now; his heart is thumping in his chest and his breathing has become laboured. The last person he wants to see after the craziness of this weekend is Valentino. He feels vulnerable and helpless, stripped bare in the face of his adversary and unprotected in his own safe space. Images conjured by his traitorous brain flood his mind: Valentino destroying his last remaining sanity; Marc losing everything he has left; and Marc's friends abandoning him when they discover how hopeless he is. He bites back the distressed whine trapped in his throat, desperately hoping no one notices the choked-off noise he makes instead, but 7 sets of eyes immediately dart towards him, the silence broken. He gulps on his fear, his body frozen despite his mind screaming for him to move. The attention of the whole room is directed at where he is staring like a rabbit in headlights, too scared to flee. In his periphery, he swears concern flashes across Valentino’s face, gone as soon as it came, before he speaks, uncharacteristic uncertainty colouring his voice.

“Marc, I-”

Jorge curtly cuts him off, unwilling to let Valentino land his first blow.

“Valentino, to what do we owe the pleasure?”

Valentino looks him up and down, sitting at ease in Marc’s living room. The younger is still sprawled across him and Dovi, looking up with scared eyes. Molten-hot anger once more boils in Valentino’s stomach. He does not understand what elicits such a strong reaction; whether it is the presence of Lorenzo or the way Marc is all over the pair of retired riders. Although, why would he be angry about that? It is none of his business who Marc screws. He scoffs, his face contorting into harsh, livid lines. All his intentions for politeness are forgotten. But Jorge knows his old rival too well not to see what is going on, and he can’t allow that. He pushes Marc towards Dovi, letting him settle before he jumps up, starting towards Valentino and talking lowly so that only he can hear.

“Don’t you dare, he has every right to move on, you don’t give a shit about him. Don’t pretend you do. He’s wasted enough of his life over you when you went out of your way to ruin him”

Who said a little jealousy wasn’t good to make sure someone knew what they were missing? Valentino's jaw hits the floor, astonishment and fury pouring over him like gasoline to a fire.

“Move on? Move on from what? I don’t care what the hell the bastard does in his spare time, I just want him to leave my boys out of it.  Get out of my way Lorenzo”

The heightened emotions leak into their voices, louder than intended, grabbing the interest of the others. Alex stands up , coming to stand next to Jorge. Marc’s face has shuttered at Valentino’s words. Luca and Pecco also make a start towards Vale but are halted by Jorge’s hand. Alex beat them all to it, swearing up a storm in Catalan.

“Vés a cagar a la via, puto desgraciat!”

Marc is staring at his brother with shock written across his face, he has never heard him sound so furious. Alex pays no mind, his wrath directed at Valentino.

“Puto imbècil de merda!”

Most of them have no idea what he is saying, but they can gather that isn’t exactly polite. Jorge looks torn between laughter and dismay. Alex collects himself enough to seethe once more in Valentino’s direction, in English this time, so he can understand.

“You bastard. You absolute bastard. How dare you turn up here and start acting so self-righteous. I hate you. You ruined everything. I almost lost him. We all almost lost him-”

Alex chokes on his next words, emotions overwhelming him. There are tears in his eyes which he furiously wipes at as he turns towards Jorge, gesturing for him to continue, before he slinks across the motorhome and through the door to the bedrooms. Valentino shakes himself from his stupor, astonished by the outburst.

“Is he always so dramatic-”

He never gets to finish that sentence as Jorge interrupts him, truly fed up with his nonchalance and refusal to see the truth.

“No, no, you listen here, you bastard. You didn’t have to watch him break down in your arms because of the things people have been saying. You didn’t have to watch him cling to the only people he had left for him because you took everyone else away. You left, walked out, left him broken, and let everyone else pick up the pieces of your mess. Fuck you, Valentino. Fuck you and your stupid denial and your ability to make your own problems everyone else’s.”

Vale stands silently, indignance rising inside him, rendered speechless by Jorge and Alex’s outbursts. He glances at Marc, who has masked his face into the perfect picture of media calm, only a slither of his previous panic shines through. His eyes look far away as if he is barely conscious of the chaos around him. He pushes the thought to the side.

“What the fuck? What did you just say? He lost me my tenth. We all know that I just told it as it was.”

He looks towards his academy boys, who all refuse to meet his eyes. It only makes him madder, a little hysterical at the idea that they too had been corrupted.

“No, we fucking don’t. Ask yourself Vale, what the hell would Marc gain from helping me over you? Why would he do that? He loved you, not me. You’ve clouded your own brain with lies and conspiracies and you’ve forgotten the truth. Marc did fuck all apart from trying to win.”

Marc reacts to that, grimacing from his seat, looking between Jorge and Valentino with barely concealed panic. Valentino gives him a side-eyed look and scoffs.

“Love? Yeah right, the only thing Marquez loves is his bike and winning. But maybe he wanted you more than me?”

“You’re kidding? Jesus Valentino, you’re so dense”

“Well, we all know he slept with half of the grid after Sepang, so it isn’t a giant leap.”

Alex growls at that; Valentino isn’t sure when he re-entered the room, but now he whips around towards Vale but is held back by Pecco. Jorge is panting now, seething with anger. Dani grabs his hands rubbing it comfortingly and pulls him back from Vale as Marc goes to stand, slightly wobbly on his feet.

“So that’s what you think of me huh? Do you think I’m some whore who won the championship for Jorge so I could sleep with him? Do you think I’m an attention seeker? A dangerous rider? That I’ve ruined this sport?”

Valentino watches him in silence, there is something off about Marc, something he can’t quite understand. Something lingers beneath the burning pride and resentment that he is so used to. His eyes are unfocused and a little lost; their usual warm brown has darkened, engulfed by his pupils and his anger. He somehow looks young, wide-eyed and naïve, despite the fury radiating off him. How he manages to look hurt, angry, and confused at once is baffling. It reminds Vale of that godforsaken photo that was taken at the press conference in Sepang, the one that has haunted him for a decade. When he first saw it, he laughed, but then it made him doubt everything. As the years have gone on and he’d solidified his stance on Marc, it still lingers.

“Did you know it was one of your fucking journalist pals that leaked my medical records? Were you part of that too? Did you take delight in all my pain, or was it just your fans? They never could let 2015 go, a little bit like you I suppose.”

Marc spits it out, venom burning his tongue. The room goes silent. Alex turns to him, just as shocked as the others.

“si, the team told me earlier, I couldn’t tell anyone yet, there’s no official confirmation, and frankly I didn’t want to face it. We’ve kept it quiet for your sake Valentino, but maybe we shouldn’t have. After all, you didn’t give a shit when they broke into my house and threatened my family. You didn’t give a shit when I almost died. Why would you care now? You always have had a sway with the media, no doubt they would find a way to spin this in your favour. A few choice words and all would be forgotten. Yes?”

Valentino looks like the floor has fallen out from underneath him. Pecco sits back down heavily as disbelief colours the air around them. The room drops a few degrees. Valentino’s face crumbles, the fight leaving him.

“You’re lying...”

Valentino doesn’t sound certain as the accusation falls past his lips. Marc simply laughs a harsh, cruel thing.

“Why would I lie about this? Let me guess, you think the rest of it is a lie too, huh? Did I make that up too?”

“Marc, I didn’t know”

Marc scoffs in response, rolling his eyes at his former hero.

“What didn’t you know Valentino? About the press digging up all my pain, your fans abusing me, or about how you left me back in 2015?”

Valentino stutters, grasping at the feeble trails of what used to be his truth - torn to shreds in the light of the motorhome.

“Go on Vale, say it, you didn’t know how bad it was? Didn’t know that I-“

“No stop, don't”

Valentino looks devastated now, eyes darting wildly around Marc’s face, looking for a hint of lies. He doesn’t find any. It makes sense then, what he found earlier, Marc looking out of it, clouded eyes, wobbling when he stood up. He’s spitting nothing but the truth because he’s clearly off his face on something. He shoots a desperate look at Alex, the younger meets his gaze but doesn’t react. Valentino starts to speak but pauses, unable to force the words out. Marc releases a bitter laugh.

“You can’t even say it. I had to live it, at 22. I was almost a CHILD. I LOST everything to you. I almost died. You took my heart with you when you left, and a knife in My back.”

Valentino chokes,

“Why didn’t you say?”

Marc laughs even harder, a manic edge to it.

“Of course, I didn’t fucking tell you. What was I meant to say? Hi Vale, I know you hate me and think I’m the worst thing that’s ever happened to you and the sport but I’m actually in hospital and I want to die. Just thought I’d let you know.

How about this? Valentino, I'm in love with you but actually, I've overdosed and in about ten minutes my brother will find me half-dead. But I thought you should know what you meant to me”

And God the aim was true on that one, Valentino gasps for air, clutching at any defence he can find.

“You were on track with a death wish? It’s not like I was wrong then”

The room startles at that, shocked by his cruelty. Luca puts his face in his hands, muttering obscenities under his breath in Italian as Pecco shoots daggers at his mentor. Dovi honest to God growls, prowling towards Valentino, but is stopped by Dani who is also glaring at the oldest Italian. Alex turns and punches the wall. Hard.

“Really? That’s what you’ve taken from this?”

Valentino seems to wake up to the room’s atmosphere then, realising the stupidity of his statement. He sensibly decides not to elaborate further on that point. Jorge begins to speak, hoping to put an end to the madness but Marc stops him. Now that he’s started laying it out, he can’t stop gutting himself in front of Valentino.

“Shocker but being suicidal doesn’t mean I tried to take myself or anyone else out in style on race day. Well, I certainly didn’t try to kill anyone else. I know you have convinced yourself that I am the devil, that I am dangerous. I can see that you will never change your mind. But you do not get to come here and pretend I have done something wrong by protecting the small amount of will to live I had left by avoiding you. Did you want me to call? In 2015? 2016? You would have loved to hear that you’d broken me. All I did was sleep and cry and be forced to eat when all I wanted to do was stop living. Do you think I should have messaged when I was riding through agony in 2020-2021? Maybe I should have asked you to take me back because I was in so much pain that I was abusing the medication. Do you like my humiliation? Is it some twisted game to you?”

It is then that the final piece of the puzzle falls into place. Valentino realises several truths at once.

Marc had been crying before he had entered and probably for quite some time considering his red-rimmed eyes, filled with hurt. It makes him wonder whether he allowed the others to watch him break apart; the thought makes a spike of resentment lance through him. Secondly, it is jealousy he has been experiencing all weekend, staring at the way Marc relaxes in front of Dovi and the other ex-riders. Valentino can’t pinpoint what he is jealous of, but it sits uncomfortably in his stomach, so he decides not to think about it. Thirdly, Marc hates vulnerability more than anything else; there’s no way he is enjoying this weekend, and he certainly didn’t cause it in a fit of attention-seeking. Valentino used to know him well, he doesn’t know how he overlooked that. For Marc, this must be torture, showing so much weakness to the world. He would be too proud to admit it, but he is hiding behind a wall of fake bravado even in his worst moments, scrambling desperately to hold his defences.

Valentino has seen the reports; the vivid descriptions of Marc’s pain make him wince. Some of them he couldn’t bring himself to read, too painful and gruesome to fathom. Marc’s history is printed out in black and white. He knows what they say, and now he realises with sickening clarity that they are all true. It makes him stumble slightly, horror dawning in his mind like the sun breaking the horizon, lighting up the truth with vivid clarity. He thinks about what he’s read, the graphic details of the overdose in 2015, where Alex had found him on the floor of their bathroom at home, slurring and on the brink of consciousness. All of it is written in stark medical terms, including the resuscitation. Marc had died on the table; it rocks him to the core. He rehashes the reports of Marc depressed and desolate after 2015, a chain he wore for many years to come. Reports of Marc on suicide watch and the subsequent concern of the doctors who cared for him. He feels sick when he imagines the aftermath of Jerez, the surgeries and the subsequent pain, the scribbled doctor’s notes talking about addiction and reliance. Words are thrown around like medical neglect, non-compliance, and risk to self and overdose. Tales of Marc riding through agony only to cram himself full of medication the rest of the time, just to numb the pain. It had all happened to him, to his Marc. And when had it become his Marc?

Vale feels as though he is free-falling off the edge of a building, without a parachute. He is struck again and again by the realisation of the truth of what he has done. He buckles under the weight of it, almost falling to his knees. Distantly, he sees his boys staring at him with a mix of confusion and horror. Valentino has fucked up. All those years, he turned a blind eye, chose to listen to his side of things, and ignored everything that told him otherwise. He’s going to be sick. He has lived in his own little world for too long and now it is as if someone has come along and burst his bubble; they have flicked on the lights. The truth does not portray him in a pretty light. The world outside his bubble is cruel and horrifying. He searches within himself but can no longer find any fury over Sepang, just guilt. He still believes Marx chose vengeance, he still thinks he can be dangerous, but can’t they all? It looks different now, it makes more sense and fits with the other perceptions of Marc. The stone-cold racer who will do anything to win. The suffering man who took solace in his bike. His Marc.

Valentino turns to Marc once more. Tears are shining in his eyes; he looks completely drained of life. Vale feels the same way.

“Marc, I didn’t know. I promise I didn’t know, Oh god, Cazzo. Marc, I had no idea. Cazzo. Cazzo.”

“Leave Valentino, just go.”

“No please, let me explain, I thought-”

“NO. GO! GET OUT. LEAVE. I DON’T WANT YOU HERE AGAIN. PLEASE, JUST GO.”

Marc loses his composure, screaming at Valentino. His voice cracks as the tears begin to spill over. He wipes furiously at his eyes, gazing at Valentino one last time before he looks away. As he turns, he says one last thing,

“You had your chance. Don’t come back”

Alex steps forward then, pushing Valentino to the door, with some delight.  Luca, Bez, and Pecco trail after them awkwardly, Luca puts his hand on Marc's shoulder as he passes, apologising quietly. Pecco pulls him into a tight hug, surprising the older man. As he escorts them outside, Alex turns to Valentino, his tone is crystal clear but simmering with fury, delivering a killing blow.

“Maybe you should spend some time thinking about what it would be like to hold your brother in your arms, minutes away from death. I found him you know. I called for help, I took him to the hospital, and I watched the life fade out of him. No matter how many years go by, I’ll never, ever, forget holding him, thinking it would be his last breath, weeping over him. Nothing will ever be worse.

You’re the reason my brother lost everything, make it right or fuck off and don’t come back.”

The younger Italians look devastated as Alex turns to leave, barely sparing them a glance. Alex slams the door behind him. Vale is breathing heavily as he spins around and meets three disappointed stares. Pecco just shakes his head, turns on his heel and leaves. Bez surprises the older man as he offers Valentino a sad look.

 “You’re a fucking idiot”

Luca’s reaction hurts the most, his younger brother levelling him with a disappointed glare and some harsh words.

“You need to fix it. You fucked up. Badly. Work it out, Vale.”

Vale watches Luca’s back disappear into the darkness, despair threatening to swallow him home. Vale stands there alone, outside Marc’s motorhome, for some time. It feels like time is suspended, the echoes of past mistakes haunting him. He really has screwed up, and he has no idea how to fix it.

Chapter Text

Ever since the news broke, Valentino had been overwhelmed by a myriad of confusing feelings.

He first heard whispers in the paddock on Friday morning. He was walking past some journalists and had noticed the excited murmuring that usually accompanied big news. It wasn’t until he heard Marquez’s name that he stopped, pretending to be busy so he could eavesdrop.

Although he liked to pretend Marc was no longer important, he could not deny his interest in the man. Marc had ruined his untarnished career; it was only normal to feel such intense rage whenever he was reminded of the man. It was the reason he still spoke about him, he needed the world to understand the injustice, to feel his hatred. Because that was what this was all about. Hatred. He knew the boys would call him obsessed, but really, he was just getting a better idea of the enemy, for Pecco’s sake. He scoffed when he figured out what the journalists were talking about, the apparent breaking news– yeah, as if. He continued walking, amused by the idea. It was preposterous, all Marc wanted was to beat Valentino, to take his records. He wouldn’t have given up on that. The one thing Marc loved more than anything else was winning. He shook his head; Marc was never so weak.

It wasn’t till later, when he sat watching the press conference, that a sliver of doubt crept in.

He considered himself an expert in Marc. The way he calculated every action, how he performed every expression. Everything was a persona with him. But after the first question, it all crumbled. He watched pure fear cross Marc’s face before he could school it. The press constantly brought up 2015, it usually made Valentino feel slightly vindicative, the way Marc always had to paste on his media smile. This time, though, he only experienced a creeping sense of dread. Marc was trying to get them to move on from the topic, with limited success. Valentino observed the way Pecco was staring at Marc, concern and bemusement unhidden in his countenance. It made Vale frown. The atmosphere in the press room was tense, even through the screen.  

It only got worse.

Marc was staring into the distance, looking at something off-camera, his expression alarmed. The next question was worse, shaking Marc out of his daze. He watched in fascination as Marc’s façade fell apart, sweat glistening on his brow, his face carefully blank to the casual observer. Valentino flinched when his name was mentioned, and his stomach dropped at the sentence that was uttered.

Marc? Suicide? No way. No, that wasn’t possible.

Valentino was clenching and unclenching his fists, his brow furrowed as he intently stared at the screen. He thought he might be having a heart attack.

Jesus.

He was fixated on Marc’s face ; Valentino saw the horror dawn on his face as understanding settled and felt his own nausea rising in response. He watched as the Marc on-screen flitted his eyes to the other riders on stage , he followed the younger man’s gaze. Pecco looked wrecked, fear shining in his eyes. The others didn’t look much better. The silence was deathly; Marc was frozen in place – a rabbit in headlights.

Valentino blinked. Marc shot out of his seat, sending it clattering to the floor. He watched in horrifying confusion as Marc fled. There was a second of quiet before the media room exploded. The three remaining riders looked bemused, staring after where Marc had bolted, before they too rose to their feet, trailing out of the room in a daze. Valentino had to close his eyes for a second. This could not be happening. Seriously. This had to be some elaborate joke, a media ploy from Marc’s team. He simply could not believe that happy, carefree Marc had done this. He settled slightly, yes, of course. It had to be false. Marc would never give up, no matter how bad it had gotten.

*

Thoughts of Marc were still on his mind when he found Pecco later. He wondered what had happened and why Marc had reacted in that way. A part of him thought this must have been some elaborate ploy to gain sympathy.

Pecco was sitting despondently on the settee in his motorhome, deep in thought. Vale once more cursed Marc Marquez, of course, Marc couldn’t just leave Valentino alone, he had to fuck with his students too. Anger rose within him; he shoved it down. Right now, he had to focus on Pecco. He sat down, their knee knocking as he did so, and sighed quietly.

“Are you okay?”, he asked.

“Ah, I do not know. Cazzo , that was hard to watch”, Pecco replied.

Valentino cocked an eyebrow, there was more anxiety in Pecco’s voice than he had anticipated. He had hoped that it wouldn’t have affected his student as much, Marc was clearly fine, wasn’t he? He said as much to the other man, who scowled in response.

“You’re joking, Vale. You should have seen him after, he was a mess, throwing up in the toilets, almost crying. It was horrible”, Pecco snarled. It raised Vale’s hackles, Pecco didn’t know Marc the way that he did.

Marc was a manipulator; he changed that narrative to suit himself. He would do anything to win, including betraying people he claimed to love. He got people on his side by any means. The way he’d convinced Ducati to hire him for next year still baffles Vale. Sure, he was a good rider, but putting him in red was a bad move, stupid if you asked Vale. Marc was dangerous, and unpredictable. Ducati was Italy’s pride, and they had gone and put enemy number one on their bike. Valentino’s frustration had nothing to do with his title record and his own failure on the Ducati machine.

Nothing at all.

Valentino tried not to consider it too hard, how much he thought of Marc. In his weaker moments, he allowed himself to reminisce on what could have been. He hated to admit his former soft spot for Marc, the way the younger looked at him as if he had hung the moon and the stars. At his worst, he let himself imagine sharp cheekbones and pink lips, of loud laughter and warm brown eyes. Marc should always be smiling; even going through tragedy, he smiled. The thought of him in pain made him shudder. But he was not in pain, because it was a lie. It was abhorrent to think of it as the truth. It could not be. It went against the very fabric of the universe. It was a bit like this: he hated Marc Marquez, and Marc Marquez was a smug bastard who was always infuriatingly happy. These were two facts that he clung to desperately.

He turned back to Pecco, who had gone stiff beside him. Valentino had heard that Alex Marquez had swept Marc back to their motorhome after the press conference, he tried not to think too hard about that. Clearly, it had shaken Pecco, and Vale didn’t like that one bit. He settled a hand on the younger’s back, ignoring his own thoughts for a minute.

“Pecco, you cannot let this get to you”, he said. “Let Marquez deal with his stuff, it will blow over soon enough.”

Pecco did not look settled by his answer, but Vale did not have anything else to say, instead, he changed the conversation into a practice debrief, easier territory for them both.

If only he had been correct.

*

Marc got pole position in qualifying. It made Valentino grit his teeth in frustration, wondering how the hell the Spaniard was beating the others on a year-old bike. He had been watching Marc carefully in his box, noting his slightly subdued manner. It made an unnamed emotion swell within him. He pushed it down. His stomach soured when he caught sight of Andrea Dovizioso in the Gresini garage, looking at Marc with unconcealed fondness. He was all over the Spaniard, the two of them laughing together like children. Surely nothing was that funny. The ugly feeling only grew when they walked past whilst Vale and Pecco were chatting in the paddock, the older whispering to Marc. Valentino couldn’t help but stare, as he always did when it came to Marc.

Valentino didn’t notice the man until it was too late. He watched it happen in slow motion- the cruel words and Marc’s heart-breaking reaction. The ‘fan’ was brutal, viciously attacking Marc. It was hard to watch the way his face broke, his eyes going shiny with tears. Valentino’s world stopped at the hurt he saw. By the time his brain came back online, Pecco had gone, stalking over to the incident. He followed closely, grimacing as Pecco began to shout at the man. Marc was being dragged away by Dovi,  Vale tried to shove down the misplaced discomfort at seeing the two together, it almost felt akin to jealousy. But that was impossible. He had nothing to be jealous of.

( Nothing ).

He re-focussed on the way that security was hauling the man away from them and towards the exit. Valentino tugged Pecco’s sleeve, wanting to escape from the public as soon as possible . He swallowed down the feelings which threatened to rise at what he had just witnessed.

“Come on, let’s go , it’s not worth it ”, he sighed, pausing briefly before continuing , “you are upset , it is not worth staying and watching , we will make sure he never comes back. I promise.”

Pecco relented. His face was distraught , his anguish clear. By the time they reached the Ducati motorhome, Pecco had fully retreated into himself and asked to be left alone. Valentino accepted the request despite his concern. He did not really want to abandon the younger man but felt he had no choice after he had almost screwed up that morning.

Being alone gave him time to think, as uncomfortable as it was. He was surprised by the venom that had laced the man’s voice as he spoke to Marc, it made Valentino wonder if that was usually how people addressed him. He could understand Marc’s reaction to such horrible words, and Pecco had always been a kind-hearted person. Dovi’s intentions were still unclear to Vale. He let his thoughts drift back to Marc- his sad eyes and blank face. It couldn’t be easy to be hated so viciously. To make matters worse, a quick look on social media told him that a lot of people had said similar things. He thought back to his interview this morning, where he had suggested that they disregard thinking about Marc’s life from 10 years ago. It was, after all, pointless. The past was the past. Clearly, he was alone in his views. He pointedly did not lament the fact that Sepang and his 10th were a decade ago too, because that was different . He closed his eyes, pushing away the mental image of Marc’s shattered face.

Instead, he focussed on his anger. The way Marc had practically fallen in Dovi’s arms as if he was anything but a lone wolf, an outsider in the paddock. He had heard whisperings in the paddock that Dani Pedrosa and Jorge Lorenzo were in Gresini today too. It seemed like Marc was inviting all the retired riders to watch. He did not analyse the feelings too much , but let the indignation rise within him. Marc’s stupid games were affecting Pecco, it was unfair. Vale frowned at the thought, it would not do, he would have to tell Marc to cut it out. Make sure that Marc knew that Valentino knew the truth.

It wasn’t too difficult to catch Marc before the sprint. The younger had, predictably, taken the quiet route through the motorhomes to get to the garages. What was more unexpected was the tense fight that occurred. Valentino had expected to call Marc out and be met with annoyance and maybe an admittance of guilt. He had not anticipated the stone-cold fury in Marc’s voice, nor his own rising emotions, made worse when he spotted Dovizioso’s stupid jumper. He tried to keep his temper under control but the thought of Marc lying to the media, making everyone feel bad, only to be doing that , with Andrea of all people, left a sour taste in his mouth. He was meaner than he intended to be and was met with blazing anger from Marc. There was startling hurt in his voice. It was only once Marc had turned on his heel and stalked away that Valentino realised that the younger had had tears in his eyes and that he had sounded scarily like he was telling the truth. He watched him leave as regret welled up inside of him.

Merda

* 

When Marc crashed out of the sprint race, the guilt and regret increased tenfold. His heart had stopped when Marc had collided with the ground, nausea rising when he did not move after. He could not stop thinking about the look on the younger’s face as he had called him an attention seeker. It hurt too much. Suddenly, ten years of anger seemed irrelevant. To make it worse, now people were talking about more leaks, something about Marc and painkillers. Valentino wasn’t sure he really wanted to know. He was beginning to question why Marc would do this to himself. 

Afterwards, Valentino tuned into the stream of the media pen, not wanting to go down in person. Pecco had won the race, and Marc had gotten back to his feet, scoring no points but alive. Valentino could only watch in horrified fascination as the press continued to hound Marc. He had never seen it so bad. The way the journalists watched Marc like they were hunting prey made him shiver. He didn’t think he had ever seen Marc look so ruffled. A distant voice told him that this was his fault. The aftermath of Sepang flashed through his head, he steadfastly ignored it. It was not his fault the media had broken into Marc’s house. He had not caused the fallout or the hatred, if Marc had not ruined his title chances, there would have been no issues. Valentino scowled at the thoughts. 

His momentary distraction ended when Marc once more stalked out mid-interview. It left Vale feeling slightly dumbfounded. Why would Marc keep having such strong reactions to the news if it was planned? As much as he hated to admit it, his theory was beginning to show cracks, splintering at the edge. He chose not to consider the other feelings that came alongside that revelation. Instead, he turned off his phone, hoping the boys would provide some distraction when they came back.

The boys came pouring into his motorhome an hour later, after their celebrations and debrief, as was usual for the academy on a race weekend. Luca and Bez were first, talking between themselves about the race, making Valentino smile with their rehashing of the events. When Franky entered, he was complaining about how long his debrief had lasted, making Valentino grin as he reminisced. Long debriefs were always painstakingly boring. Pecco and Cele eventually stumbled in half an hour later, the older still buzzing from his win. Vale tried to let his awkwardness from earlier show as a round of cheers sounded. He congratulated Pecco warmly, and let happiness fill him at the sight of Pecco’s beaming smile in return. Things would be okay.

Valentino drifted in and out of the conversation after that, his thoughts elsewhere. He nodded at appropriate times and tried to look interested whilst his mind whirled. It was inevitable, really, that someone would bring up Marquez eventually .

 “Did you see Marquez’s crash?”, Bez asked.  

It prompted a round of affirmative hums from the others. Luca flicked his eyes over to Valentino, his eyebrows furrowed.

Pecco looked contemplative before he responded, “I am worried, he would not look at me on the grid. Then he crashed. He was distracted. I think the media are being too harsh. And the fans. They are being cruel. The things being said...”

He trailed off, deep in thought. Luca bumped their shoulders together, smiling gently when Pecco met his eyes. Valentino had the distinctive feeling that he was missing something.

“Did you hear about what happened in the press pen?”, Cele asked.

Pecco frowned at him, tilting his head to signal that he should continue.

“ Apparently, he froze up completely when they asked him about the pain medication. Aleix and a few others basically carried him out. I saw it happen; I’ve never seen him like that before. It was horrible”.

His eyes flashed to Valentino as he spoke the last bit as if he feared being chastised. It made him feel distinctly uncomfortable , was he really so obsessed with Marc that his boys were afraid to mention him?

Bez looked on in confusion. He turned to Cele,

“What do you mean pain medication?” he asked. “I haven’t really looked at any of the articles, I thought it was bullshit? Or some kind of a joke”.

Pecco huffed slightly, scowling at Bez as he did so. The younger touched his arm in apology, and yet again Valentino felt out of the loop.

It was Luca who pulled out his phone , bringing up one of the many articles which covered the news.

“Here”, he said. “Yesterday his medical records were leaked to the press. There were a whole bunch of appointments and hospital visits documented. The main bit was at the end of 2015 and onwards. He had been to A&E twice, there was a lot about suicide attempts and Alex saving his life. Apparently, he had tried to overdose, it's unclear what happened the second time. His heart stopped I think.”

Valentino blanched. Luca grimaced slightly before continuing.

“From there, there was a whole bunch of stuff about his mental instability and risk. It looked pretty bad , even as a non-medical professional. Then today, more of it was leaked, this time about his crash in 2020. Apparently, he was abusing the painkillers prescribed to him. He would race through agony, causing more issues with his arm, and then just take a load of painkillers after to mask it. Again, Alex ended up getting him help. No wonder they are so close. I think there was a lot of concern about him using the pain as a form of self-harm or something, then it was so bad he just kept taking medication.”

Pecco spoke up then, his voice strained, “I just don’t understand how no one noticed. One of the most prominent drivers on the grid and no one noticed his declining mental health or his use of painkillers. It’s ridiculous.”

Valentino was barely listening, transfixed instead by Luca’s words. He took the phone out of Luca’s hand without asking, staring down at the article. There, in black and white, were pages and pages of clinical medical records for Marc Márquez Alentà. Valentino felt a bit sick. He couldn’t stop reading. There were blocks of gruesome detail about his A&E visits. The medical terms flew past Valentino, but he got the gist. It was bad . Page after page after page of horrific detail about every bit of pain Marc had gone through across the past decade. His eyes glanced over words, his mind conjuring the images to life. He could see 22-year-old Marc’s face, heartbroken and desolate in Sepang, and then blank afterwards. Fuck. How had he not noticed?

He wanted to stop. He couldn’t. Panic was rising inside him; he clamped it down. It was a lie. A lie. This couldn’t be true. He tore his eyes away. It swelled within him. He was going to be sick. He was losing it. Marc. He had missed it, how had he not seen it back then? The thought of his Marc like that broke him. The thought of him being the cause made him choke. He squeezed his eyes shut. Where was this coming from? Why did he care?

Vale spoke without thinking, his mind a million miles away.

“Why would he do that?”, he asked. Luca shot him a sympathetic look. Valentino had a suspicion that his face was betraying his emotional turmoil.

He choked over his next words.

“It’s not true. It can’t be true. Marc wouldn’t do this. Marc loves winning. He couldn’t win if he was 6 feet under. No. No. It must be a lie.”

Valentino knew he was now ranting like a madman. The boys were staring at him with wide eyes full of fear. He felt like he was going crazy and yet he continued.

“Why would be so selfish? Why would he do something like that? He was so young. He had so much to live for. What about his family? His brother. It’s not fair. It’s so selfish. I hate him. Bastard.”

Valentino was on the brink of tears, clutching at his hair. He didn’t notice the way Pecco’s eyes had turned hard and cold. He didn’t see the way Bez had frozen, clutching Pecco’s arm. The others were silent, shocked at his words.

Valentino looked up. He met Pecco’s eyes.

The younger man stood and stiffly walked to the door. He opened it and looked back towards Vale.

“You do not get to say things like that when you were part of the cause. Don’t you dare call him selfish. You are the bastard here”, he whispered, his words scalding. Before Valentino could respond, he was gone. Bez leapt out of his chair to follow, slamming the door behind him.

Valentino shot Luca a questioning look. His younger brother sighed,

“You are so obtuse, Vale. His sister also went through similar. She almost died. He is hurting seeing Marc this way too.”

Vale found himself full of outrage. How was he meant to know? Of course, he felt bad for Pecco, but this was Marc they were talking about. He said as much to Luca, who just shook his head, looking angrier than Vale had seen him in a long time.

“You need to wake up Valentino.”, he said.

“You do not hate Marc; you are obsessed with him. Yes, you were angry, but that was a decade ago. Surely you are over it by now. If I were you, I would consider what all your feelings about Marc really mean. Before you fuck it up even more.”

With that, the rest of the boys filed out of the motorhome, leaving Vale to stew in his anger and his guilt. He did not want to think about what Luca had meant about Marc. Instead, he would find Pecco and apologise, it was, after all, unfair to bring the boys into it. It was not his finest moment; Marc had always had that effect on him. He scowled at the thought. No one had ever been like Marc, he doubted anyone ever would. For Valentino, Marc was like a drug, inherently bad but at the same time addictive . A strange paradox for someone he hated.

Vale locked the door of the motorhome behind him as he headed out to find Pecco. The wave of anger had receded, and the guilt came crashing back down, threatening to drown him. He had to make it right.

Pecco wasn’t in his own motorhome; the lights were off as he went past, the door unanswered. He tried the Ducati garage but still had no luck. The staff had not seen him since earlier, after the sprint. Bez’s motorhome was similarly empty. He was running out of ideas and worry was beginning to engulf him.

One last idea struck him, and he walked slowly toward Marc’s motorhome, the lights were on. As he approached, the dread he felt threatened to engulf him. It was like a premonition. A war between guilt and anger was waging inside him. He heard Luca’s voice, followed by Bez’s, and the fury took hold. He threw the door open; it hit the wall with a resounding bang. He took in the scene before him, the remorse souring in his stomach, turning to resentment.

“What the fuck is going on?”

*

In hindsight, he could have handled it better. He had seen red. The thought of his boys running to Marc. Then he saw Marc on top of Dovi and Lorenzo.

He lost himself. 

It wasn’t until Marc addressed him directly that he felt like he could breathe again. He returned to his body. The more Marc spoke, the more his fury faded to irrelevance. But then Valentino had spoken without conscious thought, once more putting his foot in it. 

The realisation had taken his breath away. Marc had been crying. Marc had been vulnerable; he hated being perceived as weak. Marc was angry, no, he was furious. Marc had just had his deepest secrets announced to the world. He was receiving more hate than Valentino had ever seen. 

He hadn’t been lying. 

Why the fuck did Vale ever think he had been lying? The evidence had been right in front of him, but it had been too scary to really look at. Valentino hadn’t wanted to admit what he had done. He realised what Luca had meant then. He didn’t hate Marc. Yes, he had been angry about his tenth world championship slipping through his fingers. Yes, he had partially blamed Marc. But alongside the hurt, the anger, the pain, was pure devotion. He had lost the championship and blamed it on the nearest person to save his ego. Although Marc had done wrong, he had never deserved this. Sure, Valentino still thought he was dangerous, pushing the bike to stupid limits. But Marc would never hurt anyone on purpose. It was like falling 50 feet and hitting the ground, the realisation crashing into him. He was jealous of Dovi, that he got the Marc that smiled and laughed, the Marc that Vale used to have. Before everything had gone to shit. Valentino thought that maybe he had loved Marc for 11 years and that somewhere in his head, love had become confused with hate. He had never hated someone like he hated Marc; he had never loved someone like he loved Marc. It was all-consuming. He was obsessed. He thought about him all the time. He was always angry, scared, and jealous when it came to Marc. He couldn’t pretend he was ambivalent, not when he consumed every waking thought. Not when he still went on podcasts to talk about the younger man. Every insight was like a punch to the stomach.

He thought Marc was stupidly pretty, with his cheekbones, his bronze skin, his wide eyes and plush lips. He wanted Marc next to him, under him, above him. He wanted to kiss the stupid, smug smirk he always wore on his face; he wanted to kiss away his tears. Valentino wanted to bring Marc breakfast in bed, make him laugh, and make love to him. He wanted Marc on his track again, taking off his helmet after with wild eyes and messed up hair. He wanted to fuck him on every surface of his house, in every position. He wanted Marc in every way that he could have him. 

Oh god, he loved Marc and all he had done was fuck up his life for a decade.

Valentino panicked. 

He scrambled, pleading with Marc, distantly aware of the horror on everyone’s faces. He had been kicked out. Marc had shouted at him, and then Alex had shouted at him. Pecco left and Luca was disappointed. 
He deserved it all. If he could take all of Marc’s pain, he would. Instead, Valentino was left with a yawning pit of desperation and want, devastation and pain. His anger was gone. 
He thinks about the way the younger man used to look at him. He thinks about the adoration that he had brushed off as hero worship. He had broken Marc’s heart. The look on his face in that press conference. The way Marc would look away during Vale’s jokes about them together. He had assumed it was awkwardness, now it seemed like someone had hit too close to the truth. Now, Marc barely glanced at him, brushing off every comment Vale made to the media in a desperate hope for a sliver of attention. It destroyed them both.

Standing there, outside the motorhome, Valentino realises just how much he has fucked up. He isn’t sure there is any coming back from this. Certainly not with the way Dovi and Marc look at each other. But damn it, he will try. He will spend the rest of his life on his knees grovelling if he has to. He has spent too long with his vision clouded by misplaced anger. It had taken him 11 years to work out his love for Marquez, he would spend the rest of his life loving him, and every day trying to prove it to him. Even if it killed him.

Chapter Text

Silence falls for a brief second after Valentino has left. Marc is standing alone in the middle of the room, staring at where he had been. He feels the shattered pieces of his heart in his chest, and he begins to cry. Once he starts, he can’t stop, wretched sobs pulled out of him as he gasps for breath. Underneath the misery and despair, the deep roots of his anger pull at him. Enraged that Valentino still treats him like a stray dog that he can continue to kick down, knowing that he will return with his tail wagging at the first hint of affection. He’s furious that Vale can pretend that he didn’t know. How can he stand in Marc’s home and plead when he has ruined everything? It leaves a sour taste in Marc’s mouth, yet his treacherous heart flutters with hope that maybe Valentino didn’t know. Maybe there is a chance.

He can barely see Alex's panicked face through his swimming vision as he frantically tries to inhale, his breath catching in his chest.

He feels the room bearing down on him, the walls contracting, pushing him from all sides. His heart races as black spots appear in his sight like stars in the night sky. His chest aches and his lungs burn, it is as if someone has sucked the oxygen out of the room. He is shaking; someone has tipped his life upside down and he no longer knows which way is up. He cannot help but feel like something bad will happen, an impending sense of doom clawing from his chest. The irony isn’t lost on him.

Alex is clutching at him now, shouting at the others in the room, who break out of their ghost-like trance and spring into action. Dovi slots himself behind Marc, strong arms wrapping around him, supporting his weight as his knees buckle. He gently manoeuvres them towards the sofa, both collapsing onto it. There is a gentle rumbling from behind him – the Italian whispering softly in Marc’s ear, and although he can’t hear anything but a static buzz, the gentleness lulls him slightly. He squeezes his eyes shut, more tears leaking down his face. When he opens his eyes, Alex is kneeling in front of him, Marc’s hands clasped in his own. He watches Alex’s lips move with no sound. He still can’t catch his breath. Violent sobs and gasps fill the air; it takes him a second to realise the broken noises are coming from him, filtering through the static.

This is what Valentino Rossi does to him. He takes Marc’s heart in his hands, brutally ripped out from his chest, and he smashes it like glass. He turns his back and leaves Marc with no blood, no oxygen, and no way to keep on living. And yet Marc still loves him. The name Marc Marquez is rarely spoken without a mention of Valentino Rossi. They are intrinsically linked, their names smeared together in an artistic rendition of pain and betrayal. Marc does not believe there will ever be a day he can live without it. They are destined to destroy each other until the end of time. Nothing will be left of his fragile heart by the time Valentino is done with it.

He thinks back to 2015. He thinks he is falling apart, shattering into a million tiny shards. The world stops spinning as he stares into the void and realises this is his fate. The man he loves willingly betrays him again and again, but despite it all, Marc cannot help but need him. A visceral, all-consuming need to consume each other until only one survives. Every time he thinks he has moved on Valentino sinks his claws back in, tearing another part of Marc apart. The backslide is always the worst part; having climbed the whole way up only to slip back down again. Pain becomes welcome in the never-ending sea of numbness. He is frantically swimming up to a surface which will never come. Choking, suffocating, sinking deeper into the murky depths. He is lost in the endless darkness, trying to find his way to a home that doesn’t exist. He feels so alone. He has shut every door trying to block it out and has numbed himself into apathy. Now the world has turned its back on him.

Alex shakes him. Hard. Unwilling to let the darkness take hold once more. Marc pulls towards the surface, pushing his head above the waves and gasping for air. He inhales. Alex’s words filter into his awareness.

“Marc, breathe with me. You’re ok, it’s okay”

Marc tries desperately to match the breathing demonstrated to him, focusing on the steady rise and fall of Dovi’s chest behind him as he gasps around his tears. He clutches onto the feeling like a lifeline, breathing in time with him. He is distantly aware of Alex talking soothingly, his hands still grasping Marc’s. Marc feels guilt wash over him; he has always tried hard to prevent his brother from seeing these panic attacks. He has tried to be strong, reluctant to let Alex feel more responsibility for Marc’s wellbeing. He failed. Another round of tears builds, leaving him sobbing wretchedly once more. The Dovi continues to whisper comforting praise, his low register rumbling against where they are flush together.

“That’s it, you’re doing so well, keep breathing for me, baby”

The pet name sinks into his chest and settles like a blanket of warmth; he feels his cheeks flush slightly. Dovi chuckles lightly, noting Marc’s reaction before he goes back to coaching the younger to breathe deeply. The world slowly filters back in, like the tide has pulled back, retreating to sea. Dovi is wrapped around him, grounding him in reality. Alex’s face is still in front of him; his eyes soft as he comes back into focus. Marc blinks slowly, squeezing his brother’s hand, and Alex exhales.

“Jöder, Marc. You scared the life out of me. God…”, Alex frets.

Water is pressed into his hands by a concerned-looking Dani. Marc tries to muster a reassuring smile, he’s not sure if he succeeds. A bone-deep exhaustion washes over him, and he sinks back into Dovi, eyes shutting against his will. Jorge and Dani watch on, concern evident from their identical worried frowns.

“Are you okay, Mijo?”, asks Dani.

Marc hums non-committedly, he wants to tell them everything is fine, but that’s a lie, and he doesn’t think he could talk right now if he tried. He could sleep for a year. It’s getting late; the sun had long since set and really it is about time that they all headed to bed. Dani and Jorge share a look, communicating without words, and announce that they will head back to their hotels to let Marc rest. He considers this for a second, and upon second thought, it might be hotel singular given how domesticated the pair are. He must ask about that, maybe tomorrow. They confer quietly with Alex before they leave, gently touching Marc and reassuring him that they will return tomorrow. Affection rises within him at his friend's kindness. Despite this, he is somewhat glad they are leaving, exhaustion weighing down on him. He feels washed out, managing a small wave as his eyes begin to droop again. Dovi shuffles out from underneath Marc, standing up and stretch leisurely.

“Let’s get you to sleep, Cariño”

He shoots a questioning look towards Alex, who shrugs a little before pointing towards the bedrooms. It makes Dovi roll his eyes in exasperation. He’s not an idiot, he knows what the others are doing - giving him and Marc space. He knows he has a soft spot for the Spaniard that you can see from space, but he also knows about Marc’s unwavering affection for Valentino. Dovi is perfectly content to be his friend without a need to act on his attraction, and if Marc ever decides otherwise then that’s something they can explore another day. Certainly not now.

He scoops Marc up off the sofa, gesturing at Alex to lead the way and following him with Marc tucked securely in his arms. Once they reach the bedroom, Dovi gently deposits him on the bed. Between Alex and himself, they manage to wrangle him out of most of his clothes and get him under the covers. He’s still sniffling weakly when he turns towards them.

“Why does he hate me? I don't understand”

Dovi's heart shatters a little at that, sadly looking back at the Spaniard tucked into bed like a child.

“I don’t know Corazón, but hopefully today’s given him a much-needed kick up the backside”

He gives Marc a weak smile, despaired that he can’t do more, and steps back to let Alex wrap him in a hug. Alex murmurs something in Catalan which prompts Marc to shove his face into his brother’s shirt. Marc’s eyes are unfocused and drooping by the time they leave, his soft goodnight echoing down the hallway as they shut the door behind them. Alex lets out a deep sigh, thanking Dovi and giving him a light hug before he shows him out. They all need their sleep tonight, with tomorrow promising to be a hectic day. Alex will stay close to his brother, unable to shake the lingering concern, but Dovi heads back to his hotel room, in dire need of some rest and time to think. He just hopes tomorrow will bring more positivity.

*

Marc wakes up with the sun, feeling well rested despite the events of the day before. He is determined to put yesterday behind him, reminding himself that he can always fight, even if the world is against him.

Marc pulls himself out of bed, putting on his comfiest outfit before he heads onto the track, hoping to get an early morning walk in to clear his head before the rest of the paddock arrives. The morning light is beautiful, and the air is warm but not uncomfortable. It reminds him why he loves racing – walking the track. He can almost imagine the smell of burnt rubber and the purr of an engine below him. He can feel the breeze on his face and imagines the feeling as he takes a corner. Marc allows himself a moment to stand and take it in, the sun warming his face and making him golden in the early morning sunshine. He has overcome a lot to be here, he might as well appreciate that. He stays out for another half an hour, leisurely walking the track and appreciating the quiet, before he heads back to the motorhome.

Someone is lingering outside the door- a figure clad in red. At first, he thinks it’s Pecco, but as he draws closer, he realises that his hair is too long. Fear momentarily grips him as he considers who might be loitering outside his motorhome, and why. But before the panic can fully set in, the figure turns, and Marc is face to face with Enea. He’s surprised the younger Italian has sought him out. He’s been avoiding most of the grid for the whole weekend, unwilling to confront their pitying faces.

 Enea greets him with a fond ciao and a warm hug as Marc invites him inside. There’s a worried frown that creases his eyebrows, it’s terribly cute. His eyes are scanning Marc as if checking to see if he’s okay.

“You areokay?”, he asks.

Marc smiles gently, the warmth from earlier returning. It makes him surprisingly honest.

“I’ve been worse. Rough night. It’ll get better”, Marc replies.

He knocks their shoulders together, enjoying the way it makes Enea flush slightly and smile in a quiet, pleased sort of way. Enea has always been one of the few Italians on the grid that Marc gets on with. Probably because he has never been associated with Vale’s posse of students. Enea is funny and kind, as well as a talented rider. It endears Marc to him.

Enea stays for coffee. The soothing sounds of quiet Italian fill the motorhome as they talk about the weekend and their plans after the race. Alex wanders into the room not long after, eyebrows raising at the sight of the two of them. Enea takes Alex arriving as his cue, standing up to leave. As Marc walks him out, the Italian tugs him into a tight hug, head buried into Marc’s shoulder.

“You scared me. At the press conference. And then yesterday. I’m glad you are okay.”, he mumbles, rawness bleeding into his voice. Marc simply pulls Enea in tighter, pressing his face against the other man’s hair, before he lets him go. He grins at the younger man, ruffling his hair good-naturedly.

“I will see you later, good luck today!”, Marc calls out as Enea leaves

“You too, Marc. Be safe”, Enea answers.

Marc grins a little manically,

“Always.”

*

The rest of the morning passes in a blur. The others are meeting them in the garage today, leaving the brothers to get ready together before heading out into the pit lane.

It is getting busier now; the paddock swells with media, team personnel, and fans. Marc and Alex try their best to swerve around the masses, taking alternative routes where possible. Usually, Marc adores meeting fans; he loves seeing their enthusiasm and passion for his sport. But the idea sets him on edge after this weekend. He has been avoiding social media, terrified by the juxtaposing reaction of the fans. He knows there is no shortage of hatred online. He found out the hard way that it translates into real life too.

Eventually, their luck runs out. Marc darts a terrified look at Alex as a group of fans spot them and begin to approach. Some of them are wearing his merch, some not. Anxiety is clawing at him, but he steals himself with a deep breath. He can’t escape without looking like an asshole and that’s the last thing he needs this weekend. A young woman approaches first, perhaps in her later teenage years; she looks about as nervous as Marc feels. All he can imagine is the man who shouted abuse at his most vulnerable moment, it scares him more than he wants to admit. He pastes a fake smile onto his face whilst mentally bracing himself for the worst.

It never comes.

The girl is sweet, asking for a photo and an autograph. It’s a relatively normal fan interaction until she pulls away from the selfie and looks directly into Marc’s eyes. He’s slightly shaken by the fierce honesty he sees there.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry about all the crap from this weekend.”, she starts, compassion and outrage evident in her voice.

“It sucks that you didn’t get to say it on your own terms. You will inspire many people with your success. Thank you for staying alive so that we can see you continue to thrive in the face of adversity. You’re very brave.”

She smiles at him after, before turning on her heel and walking away with a slight skip in her step. It leaves Marc gasping for air; his face is slack from shock. The fans continue to be quietly supportive and praise Marc’s strength. Quite a few of them are bad-mouthing the press. It makes him reconsider everything. It makes him feel brave rather than weak. It makes him consider all the people who have suffered through similar, just like Pecco had said last night. He smiles for real this time, his eyes slightly damp.

The final fan loitering is an older man wearing a faded 46 shirt. Marc gulps, fighting the recurring panic. Each step feels like a blow as the man approaches. He stops in front of Marc, who is suspended in time, tensing in anticipation.

The man speaks quickly, his voice low but sincere.

“You are a good man.”, he announces. That alone shocks Marc.

He continues, “People can see that, no matter who we support. Despite everything you have kept going, you should be proud of that.”

Marc feels hope and warmth welling up within him. It feels good, knowing that even Valentino’s fans could be kind. He wants to cry, but in a good way for once. He watches the man as he walks away, rooted to the spot, leaving Alex to drag Marc the last few hundred meters towards the garage.

He enters the garage feeling lighter than he has all weekend, a sunny smile on his face. The team reflect his positivity almost immediately; he loves them more than life. Dovi is already waiting for Marc and Alex, his eyebrows raised at their entrance.

“What’s got you smiling like that?”, he questions.

Marc grins cheekily as he replies, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He winks at Dovi and laughs at the dirty smirk he receives in response, followed by Alex’s weary groan. Dani and Jorge join them, prompting Marc to launch into a retelling of the fan interactions. He beams the whole way through.

By the time he heads out for practice, he feels on top of the world. It’s reflected in his riding, and he puts in lap after lap at a blazing pace.  By the time he pulls back into the pits, there is a wicked smile on his face.

Fuck the world, he thinks. He has proved to himself capable of handling anything. He has overcome what should have been a career-ending injury. He will get through this too; he has already done the hardest bit. Bring it on.

Chapter Text

The sound of motorcycle engines is humming in his veins. The smell of leather lighting up every synapse. It’s better than any high he’s ever had.

He guns it off the line but misjudges slightly and drops some positions. He ends up swerving to avoid a collision in the middle of the pack and bites his tongue to hold in a shout. Pole to 10^th in a corner. Fucking typical. He keeps his head down and pushes on.

Marc knows he can put on a good performance, he can feel it in his bones, the same way he knows that he can be world champion again, that he has the strength to continue in the face of adversity. The world will throw its gauntlet at his feet, but Marc continues to pick it up, bloodied and bruised from the battles that came before. He refuses to give up, taking the hard line at every turn, making moves through the pack. By turn 5 he’s in 4^th, just Jorge, Enea, and Pecco ahead of him. In his peripheral, he catches a flash of yellow, Bezzecchi riding by his side. His stomach gives a sickening lurch at the lurid colour, Valentino’s yellow. His mind threatens to fixate on the memories of him but he squashes it down as small as possible. He refuses to let Valentino wreck anything else. This race is his. He will think about Valentino after.

He feels good, the bike is dancing to his tune, not fighting him on every corner like the last few years on the Honda. He’s not on the quickest bike, but he sure as hell will back himself as the best rider. He gives it hell on the next lap, battling hard and clinching a place from Enea. He almost loses the front on the same turn as yesterday, his elbow and knee brushing against the tarmac before he slings himself upright, heaving a deep breath.

He lets out a manic laugh. He feels alive.

On lap 20 he breaks the gap to Pecco and Jorge, hunting them down like prey. He passes Jorge fairly easily, whipping around him on a tight corner line, body tucked close to the track.

Pecco puts up more of a fight. They battle through the penultimate laps, trading positions once they have dropped Jorge. A glance to his right reveals that the Italian is beside him. He grins, pressing down on the throttle.

He throws everything at the last lap, taking every corner on the edge, tucking himself flush against the bike on the straights. He’s pulling away from the red Ducati; it slots in behind him on the last few turns. Marc is too far ahead now, head bowed as he approaches the start/finish straight.

The emotions that rise when he crosses the finish line threaten to overwhelm him. They bubble up and explode as he pumps his fists in the air, screaming at the top of his lungs. He ducks his head to press against his bike, fighting the tears that want to fall.

On the cool-down lap, it feels like every rider on the grid congratulates him. Marc flips his visor up to meet Pecco’s eyes as he swerves closer for a fist bump. Aleix shouts praise at him, audible even over the wind which whips past them. Even Bez rides adjacent to gesture happily to him.

He does cry when he pulls up to the number one spot. It’s been so long. After everything, it feels like redemption. His team, his family, pull him into their arms, screaming at him and slapping him all over. Marc is crying and grinning and laughing. Alex is there, tugging him into a long hug, kissing his head as they pull apart. Dani and Jorge wrap their arms around him and whisper praise into his ears. Dovi leaps over the fence to tug him into a hug. It makes Marc laugh and laugh until he can barely see straight through the dampness in his eyes and the ache in his stomach.

Pecco and Enea have pulled into the second and third-place slots respectively. They both embrace him, congratulating him quietly. Marc smiles at them, small but honest. He feels like he has broken through a glass ceiling somewhere. He doesn’t know what that means. Some of the Factory Ducati team slap his back as he passes; GiGi grins at him knowingly.

He is on top of the world.

He barely registers as they are escorted into the back of a car. Marc tries to keep his feet on the ground. He dances onto the podium, drinking up the atmosphere as his team whistles from below. He allows a real, beaming smile to engulf his face, stretching wider as he looks up at the sky. Despite the predominantly Italian crowd, he can’t hear any boos, Marc wonders what that means. They cheer when he receives his trophy and get louder as he is drenched in champagne by Frankie, Pecco, and Enea. All of them are grinning proudly at him. He feels a little drunk.

(He hasn’t had a sip yet)

As the podium celebrations die down, something catches his eye. In the crowd, standing to the side is Valentino. Marc chokes. Valentino never watches a podium when Marc is on it, even if one of the academy boys has won. Valentino does not look away, staring at where Marc is glowing on the top step, champagne and sweat glistening on his skin.

Vale looks like he has seen a god.

Marc feels off-kilter, something akin to hope blooming within him.

*

Rules dictate that Marc has to endure another media session after he is swept off the podium. He temporarily pushes Vale to the back of his mind as they are herded into the usual post-race routine. The media pen is as busy as usual, and the sickening dread has returned in full force. He considers ignoring any questions related to his mental health in prior years, but then he remembers the interactions from this morning. Marc decides that he will no longer be ashamed.

Instead, he stares directly into the cameras as he confirms the truth of the articles. He stands tall and says he is proud of himself for overcoming his challenges. He desperately hopes it inspires others to reach out for help. He smiles as he details that he is doing much better now, thanks to the support of his family and professionals. When he asks for respect and privacy, he thinks about all the damage this has caused. He knows there will be people who never look at him the same, their cruel words will now always take a certain tone, and from now on he will be the rider who almost died by suicide. He makes peace with it.

Marc frowns at the cameras, considering for a second. He thinks of Valentino standing at the bottom of the podium and decides. He steals himself and does what he should have done years ago. For once, he hopes it goes viral. Marc must lay out the pain caused by the people who have manipulated the truth. He bites his lip.

“My life has been dramatically changed across the last 11 years in this sport. It has been the most incredible opportunity, but it has also been the hardest time of my life. I have been slandered by the press, stalked, and harassed. It has been a rough ride, some of the most painful moments of my life. A lot of it is due to words rather than crashes or injuries. I will always be more than the comments and the press, but I am a real person, with real feelings, and a family who love me.”, he states.

He smiles slightly, feeling vindicated and continues.

“The people who say these things must live sad and shallow lives and should find a more productive use of their time. I will no longer sit and take it. I am an 8-time world champion. I have come through hell and back and have the scars to prove it. You do not get to sit and comment on me until you have been through similar.”

He smirks, his PR training has gone out of the window. The reporter looks shell-shocked. Despite it all, the pain and the lies he has relived this weekend, Marc is grinning to himself as he walks away.

When he arrives back at the garage, his press officer wisely doesn’t say anything. He detects a slight hint of pride on her face and grins widely. He knows they will talk about it another day, but for now, he allows himself to get sucked into the team celebrations. A sea of blue surrounds Marc, his little family that he now calls home. Someone is blasting music out of a speaker. Marc is singing at the top of his lungs, bouncing around with Alex, and pulling his crew into the celebration.

Before long, the booze is brought out. Two guys from the team grab Marc, holding him tight as they drench him in champagne, making him splutter and squirm in their arms. He is covered in the sticky liquid, wiping at his eyes in a failed attempt to see. Dani, Dovi, and Jorge are still with them, watching on with proud expressions. Another bottle of champagne is dumped over Marc’s head, and he cackles loudly, his elation spilling over. He has missed this. Marc drinks some of the sweet liquid from the bottle being poured into his mouth. Once he is released, he turns his attention to Alex and the crew, and an evil smile is on his face. Marc aims for revenge but somehow gets more drenched in the process. He couldn’t care less; happiness bubbling inside of him.

He feels like a weight has been lifted, in more ways than one. He won a race again; he effectively told the media to fuck off. He giggles a little, champagne going straight to his head and making him giddy. He hands the bottle to Dovi and Dani, goading them to drink some before he thoroughly soaks them straight after. Jorge glares at him for that. Marc can’t find it within himself to give a shit.

It’s Alex who shows him, once the champagne has been put away and the towels handed out. He shoves his phone into Marc’s hands with no preamble. Marc squints at the screen and almost chucks the phone back at his brother. On-screen, Valentino is giving an interview, it’s clearly from this weekend, after the race.  Marc wonders what the hell Alex is thinking. He shoots his brother a look, silently asking.

“Just listen to it”, Alex implores.

Marc sighs, unimpressed by Alex’s demands. He doesn’t want to see whatever Valentino has said to the press; he’s sure it won’t be nice. He presses play anyway. Once the video loads, Marc can’t tear his eyes away. Valentino looks deflated as if the wind has been stolen from his sails. He looks sad. Marc strains his ears to listen intently to Valentino's rapid Italian, shock punching him in the stomach as he registers exactly what he is saying. Valentino compliments Marc’s race and his win, even suggesting that races like this were what made him one of the greats.

One of the greats.

Marc thinks he might have hit his head, maybe he’s in a coma and this is some weird dream. On his screen, Valentino looks into the camera and says that Marc is brave to have faced all his life adversities and come out smiling, which the average person would not be able to manage. The real kicker is what happens next. Valentino apologises, live on air. Claiming that he was sorry his actions had caused such turmoil in Marc’s life and asking the media to respect his privacy and be kind. Marc drops the phone.

The cynical part of Marc’s brain screams that Valentino is being superficial, an easy way to make himself look good. The rational part admits that the Valentino he knows could never apologise in private, let alone in front of millions of people in a public interview. He’s serious about this. This is his way of proving he is sorry. It makes him feel hesitant.

(It makes him feel a tiny bit pleased and possessive that Valentino would admit that in front of everyone).

He bends down to pick up the phone, smiling sheepishly as he hands it back to Alex. Deep down he knows it is an olive branch from Valentino, but he will have to do more than that to win Marc’s trust back. The older man has caused too much hurt to be fixed in one simple interview. At this point, Marc doesn’t know if he will be able to rekindle their friendship, no matter how much he loves Valentino.

*

Once the track celebrations have died down, they make plans for the evening. Soon enough, Marc finds himself strolling into a local club with Alex in tow. The lighting is low and red, very red. It casts everything in an atmospheric hue which screams drama and sex; Marc grins at the thought. Strobe lights shine in time to the throbbing bass, illuminating the floor in flashes. Opposite the entrance is a large bar stocked with every type of alcohol Marc could think of. A sprawling dance floor is already filled with writhing bodies. Across the room, tucked into a quieter corner, there are elaborate tables and booths of plush leather with golden details. Marc guesses this is what money buys.

He beelines to the bar, dragging Alex with him. He has to lean over the counter to shout his order, smiling at the bartender who stares with wide eyes. When they return with his drinks, Marc promptly chugs the first of the two drinks he ordered. He grins as he places the cup down, unabashed. Alex reaches around him to take his own drink before he tugs Marc back onto the floor.

They make their way towards the table which the team have claimed, Marc, clutching his drink in one hand and holding onto Alex’s shirt with the other. People cheer as the brothers approach, slapping Marc’s back and shouting greetings at them both. Dovi is already there and when their eyes meet, he raises his drink in a toast. Marc sips some of the sweet alcohol, allowing himself to relax. He is still in the afterglow of his win, practically buzzing with it. The weekend has been tough, but after 3 years without a win, he deserves this.

Most of the Gresini team are here to celebrate Marc’s victory with him. Marc takes the time to search the vicinity for familiar faces. He lights up when he spots Frankie walking towards the group carrying more drinks and pulls him into a warm hug. There are also several other teams and pilots, Marc thinks he sees Pecco in the distance. The alcohol is free-flowing from pretty early on in the evening, so it’s not long before Marc is feeling loose and tipsy. He allows people to grasp him, shouting congratulations in his ear. Marc feels happy.

Dani and Jorge turn up half an hour late, looking slightly flushed. Dovi smirks at them but Dani steps on his foot before he can comment. Marc and Alex grin. No one says a word.

They lose Alex at some point. Upon a quick scan of the area, Marc spots him chatting away with Franco, which is certainly a turn of events. Alex is talking excitedly, hands moving rapidly as he does. Franky is watching with rapt fascination, his face slightly awed. And gross. Since when were they a thing? He makes a mental note to grill his brother at a later date. Preferably once he’s drunk. He looks away. A head of brunette curls catches his eye in the crowd, Marc really hopes that’s not who he thinks it is. He swallows around the discomfort in his throat and suddenly feels way too sober. Consequently, he offers to get the next round, forcing his friends to come with him.

Dovi slots himself against Marc’s back as he orders, talking to Dani and Jorge animatedly as he does so. Those two have given up being subtle at this point, Jorge’s hand on Dani’s waist as they talk. Marc is happy for them; they seem to be made for one another with their shared understanding of each other’s lives and passions. It is a good fit. They are sickeningly domestic; Jorge looks at Dani like he’s the whole universe. It makes Marc’s chest ache a little.

He focuses instead on handing each man their drink, indicating that the bill should be added to his tab. Dovi takes his drink and smacks a kiss onto Marc’s cheek, laughing when he pulls a disgusted face.

“Thanks, babe”, Dovi says, amusement colouring his voice. Marc sticks his tongue out.

Jorge scoffs, “Get a room, guys.”

Dovi grins back at him, a little sharp around the edges.

 “Ah, maybe we will”, he retorts.

Marc smirks, chipping into the teasing conversation, “It will be right next to yours”.

Marc laughs, loud and delighted, at the grossed-out look on Jorge’s face. Dani starts giggling, muttering something about Marc probably being loud. Marc doesn’t deny it. He’s still chuckling to himself when he realises that the others have fallen oddly quiet. Dani is staring at something over Marc’s shoulder, his eyes wide. Marc turns to look behind him, only to stumble when he sees Valentino a few steps away, his face sour.

Valentino closes the gap a little more, eyes flicking between the group of four. He looks way too sober to be here. His eyes look dull without their trademark spark of humour. Marc wonders why he’s come. Valentino’s voice is calmly controlled when he asks to speak to Marc but even he cannot conceal the flash of irritation when Dovi replies first.

“No, Rossi. Leave him alone for once in your life”, Dovi seethes.

Valentino looks like he’s going to argue, the familiar anger building behind his eyes. But to Marc’s surprise, he exhales harshly, dropping his gaze to the floor before he turns on his heels and stalks away.  It leaves Marc feeling adrift, the haze of alcohol lifting and leaving behind pure confusion. What could Valentino want so badly and why did he leave without a fight? It was so unlike him.

He thinks back on the interview from earlier, the easy way Valentino had praised Marc, had defended him. Now this, his uncharacteristic calmness and walking away from an argument. Marc doesn’t understand what it means. He puts his head in his hands and groans. Things could never be simple, could they? He turns back to the others, who are staring at him with looks of sympathy and pity. He can’t stand it. Instead, he gestures to the tables, determined to forget about it all for the next few hours.

*

Marc has lost track of the number of drinks he’s had; at some point, people had begun pressing them into his hands- the perks of winning. He’s been dragged onto the dance floor by someone and is happily swaying his hips to the beat. He had lost his friends a while ago, he assumes they are back at the table rather than dancing (too old or something). Instead, he finds himself with a very drunk Bezzecchi and a substantially more sober (although definitely tipsy) Pecco.

Bez is careless as he happily dances with Marc, his hands all over the Spaniard as he bounces to the music. When they had first bumped into each other on the dancefloor, Bez had fluttered around awkwardly, as if unsure about what he was allowed.  Pecco had pulled Marc into a tipsy hug, grinning at him and staying by his side and Bez had taken this as permission. It’s no secret that the Italian is a touchy person, and clearly, he now feels content to be as close to Marc as physically possible. Hence Marc is dancing with two Italians who can’t keep their hands to themselves. He is too drunk to care. He feels eyes on him all evening, burning hot attention. He cannot identify who it is. 

At some point, Celestino joins their group. Marc is unfamiliar with the younger rider since he has not yet made the step to the higher class. But Bez is clearly fond of him. The two are plastered together from the minute he arrives, giving Marc some needed breathing room. He laughs at their clinginess. They were clearly made for each other, he says as much to Pecco, who just laughs knowingly. Marc cannot help the sense of contentment he feels, alongside the slither of sadness that he has been missing out on this. He is not sure he can lose the fondness he has gained for the other riders this weekend. He hopes he won’t have to.

Bez turns to Marc, breaking him out of his thoughts.

“Can you stop Vale from being so grumpy? I do not want to do more laps next time we train”, he slurs, drawing out the ‘e’ in Valentino’s name.

“What?”, Marc asks.

“I don’t know. He has been moody all day. Pecco is not talking to him, Luca is being odd. Now he is staring daggers at us for no reason. I do not like it. I want us to be normal.”, Bez grumbles. Marc thinks he sounds a bit like a child when he is drunk and cranky.

Bez frowns, as if deep in thought.

“Although you can stay.”, he decides.

“I like you more than I thought. He is obsessed with you though. It’s always Marc this, or Marquez that. Anyone would think he was jealous with the way he goes on-”

Bez’s monologue is prematurely cut off by Pecco slapping a hand over his mouth, preventing him from saying much else. But the damage is done, Marc stands with his mouth agape, staring at the Italians. Belatedly, Marc thinks it's rather sweet that Bez already appears fond of him, although that could be alcohol speaking. His brain is stuck on the idea that Valentino is obsessed with him, that he talks about him, and that the boys think he is jealous. Jealous of what, Marc is not sure. Thinking about it makes his head spin. Suddenly, he feels like he desperately needs some fresh air.

He turns on his heel and pushes through the crowd, distantly aware of Pecco scolding Bez in his periphery. He’s hot and sweaty when he eventually escapes the dance floor. He picks his way across the room, stumbling out the back, which is blissfully empty. He gulps in the fresh air, allowing it to cool his clammy skin. Marc is too drunk to fathom the words Bez has just said.

Marc doesn’t know how long he has been standing there, staring into space, when he hears the door open and close behind him and the warm press of another body. He jerks backwards, his eyes bugging when he realises that Valentino has joined him. The older man looks worse for wear, yet somehow still gorgeous. His normally startling blue eyes are clouded, and he is swaying slightly on the spot. Marc groans internally. Now is the worst possible time for this to happen. Marc has consumed far too much alcohol for this and Valentino undoubtedly has too.

“Marc,” Valentino says his name like a prayer. It makes Marc shiver slightly, much to his dismay. Valentino clocks it immediately, whispering his name again and stepping closer.

Marc inches backwards.

“Marc, Marc please listen to me”, Valentino pleads.

“What do you want Vale?”, he responds. His voice is deeper than he expected. He clears his throat. He kicks himself for letting the nickname slip out. Valentino takes another step forward and sinks to his knees.

Marc freezes, his mouth hanging open as he stares at where Valentino is kneeling in front of him. He feels hot under the collar and really, he should not be turned on by this, not now. Not when it’s Valentino.

His eyes are wide and so, so blue as he looks up at Marc, the outside lights illuminating his face. He looks ethereal. Marc is so fucked.

“Please, Marc”, Valentino begins.

“Just give me a chance, I would do anything. I have been an asshole, such an asshole. Cazzo, I promise I didn’t know. I will have the journalists fired. I will make sure whoever leaked this loses their jobs. I will do anything.”, Valentino pleads.

“You had nothing to do with this then. You didn’t set your people on me again?”

“I didn’t know. I was blinded by my jealousy and inadequacy. I am so tired of channelling my anger into something that happened years ago. I promise I'm going to work on it”, he is slurring now, looking more defenceless than Marc has ever seen him.

Marc sighs, torn between his heart and his head.

“And the text”, he whispers.

“What text?”, Valentino asks, confusion marring his voice.

Marc pulls out his phone, showing Valentino the singular message he had received earlier in the weekend. His face drops when he sees the number.

“Bastard”, Valentino seethes. Marc watches him carefully, but only sees the truth in his eyes, he sighs.

“Someone, you do know, I assume?”, Marc enquires.

Valentino nods slowly, he winces slightly, shifting on his knees, still peering up at the younger man.

“Uccio. He has led me astray for too long. He may be my best friend but he holds a grudge.”

Marc raises an eyebrow, challenging Valentino.

“That’s rich coming from you.”, he comments. Vale winces.

“Just give me a chance. I will do anything you want Marc. I will spend every second of the rest of my life proving myself to you. I miss you. I miss your smile and your laughter. Every time you walk past, I cannot help but stare. When you get on a bike it is like I am a moth drawn to a flame. You are addictive to me. I will no longer hide from it. The past is the past. It is behind us, now I am asking for your forgiveness. Forgiveness I should have sought a decade ago. I will not stop until you can see that I mean it. However long it takes.”

Marc is saved from replying as the door bangs open. He startles at the noise, whirling around to see who it is. Luca stands in the doorway, rooted to the spot, gaping openly at Marc and his brother, who is still on the floor. He glances between the two, before setting his gaze on Valentino.

“Valentino what are you doing?”, he says slowly, as if talking to a child.

“What does it look like I’m doing” Valentino hisses back. “You said I should get on my knees and beg if I have to. So here I am.”

Marc can only watch in stunned silence. He turns to Luca

“Is he sick? Dying? Being blackmailed?”, he asks, a pleading tone in his voice.

“Nope he’s just drunk and stupid”, Luca replies, shaking his head at Valentino, who has finally clambered back to his feet.

(Marc isn’t disappointed)

(He isn’t)

“Ah, Okay.” Marc murmurs, still baffled. Valentino scowls at Luca but before he can comment, Luca has him by the arm and is pushing him towards Franky, who has stuck his head outside the door. Alex isn’t far behind him, peeking over his shoulder at the commotion.

“Look after him”, Luca demands. Alex and Franky have moved fully outside now, coming to stand next to the others, watching Valentino warily.

“But-” Franky begins to protest. Luca cuts him off.

“You can fuck Alex after, I’ll sort him out in a minute. I need to talk to Marc”, he grouses.

Marc groans but then looks at his brother, smirking as Alex turns bright red. He is unable to resist the quip.

“Be safe little brother. You know use a-”, he starts. Alex slaps a hand over his mouth, glaring. It makes Marc giggle, his inner turmoil momentarily forgotten.

“Shut up, Marc” he grits out, but cannot help the fond amusement that radiates off him. Marc continues to giggle, unaware of Valentino’s lovestruck face as he is handed over to Franky. Alex rolls his eyes and leaves, patting Franky and whispering something in his ear on his way back inside. The two Italians follow, Franky almost dragging Valentino away.

Luca has his hand on his forehead when Marc glances back at him, looking way more stressed than anyone should on a night out. He looks up at Marc and smiles, looking slightly embarrassed.

“You did well today. You should be proud.” Luca remarks with the kindness Marc has come to know him for. He smiles at the younger, who goes on.

“I’m sorry about Vale. He is trying you know? I know my brother normally has his head up his ass but I’ve never seen him this crazy about anyone but you. I get it if you can’t do it anymore. But I know love when I see it”, he blurts.

Marc is stunned. Love? Surely not. His heart aches in his chest. Before he can question it any further, or dispute it because there is no way that Valentino loves him, Luca turns and leaves, undoubtedly to go find Vale and take him home. With that, all Marc can do is get spectacularly pissed.

So, he does.

He knocks back drink, after drink, after drink. He doesn’t see Alex again for the rest of the night, Marc makes a face at the thought of where he has gone. Luca has taken Vale home. Marc has stayed with the others, celebrating with the team into the early hours. The way it should be. Yet he can’t help but feel like something is missing.

He stumbles back to his motorhome at some stupid hour. Jorge and Dani make sure he gets back safe, taking him from the club back to the track before they head off to the hotel. His memories feel hazy as he tries to fit the key into the lock, failing several times until it finally clicks into place. He remembers doing shots with some of the academy boys, dancing with Fabio (he vaguely recalls being on a table), and sloppily kissing someone. He’s pretty sure he told Dani and Jorge that they’d be great parents one day since they were looking after him so well. Dani had laughed hard whilst leaning on Jorge, who was blushing. Marc feels happy. So happy. He pointedly does not think about Valentino.

Once he is in the motorhome, he staggers through the front room and into his bedroom. He falls into bed after stripping off most of his clothes and drifts into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

Marc wakes up with a raging hangover and a few regrets. He is momentarily thankful for the lack of nausea except that it feels like someone has taken a drill to his head, splitting it in too and he has been hit by a truck. He rolls over, pressing his face into the pillows and groaning. His head is pounding. It’s a startling reminder that he’s no longer 20. He would be perfectly happy to stay in bed all day, lazing around and wallowing in self-pity.’ He wishes he was at home, in the comfort of his house in Madrid, alone apart from dogs. But no matter how much he tries to will it into the universe, he is stuck in his motorhome in Misano with last night’s memories fresh on his mind. He pulls himself upright, wincing as it jars his sore head. The clock on his bedside shows that it’s only 10 am, far too early after a night of heavy drinking at 30-something years old. His stomach rolls threateningly, destroying his earlier gratitude.

The hangover makes him give up on all pretence of getting up straight away, rolling over and pulling the duvet around him, cuddling into the warmth. It only takes 5 minutes to realise that sleep is elusive, so he pulls out his phone to see last night's damage on social media. Thankfully, there are only a few photos of Marc, although he looks worse for wear in most of them. The comments mainly consist of people laughing at how drunk he looks or praising him for handling the weekend and his subsequent win. He is hopeful that means he did not do anything too embarrassing, or if he did, it hasn’t made its way online (yet). Upon further scrolling, Marc realises that a lot of the photos of him feature the academy boys. One picture in particular catches his eye: he is beaming at the camera as Pecco laughs beside him, and Bez is staring at Marc with wide eyes filled with wonder. Looking at it now, Marc can’t remember who had taken the photo, maybe Cele, but it is odd to see Bez look at him with something other than hatred and bitterness. He can’t help but feel fond as he remembers that there was a time when Bez was quite a fan. Marc found that he got on with Pecco more than he realised and that Bez and himself have quite a few similar qualities (perhaps they would make quite the dramatic pair). He hopes their relationship can flourish beyond civility from now on, but Marc knows not to get his hopes up too soon. He keeps scrolling, stumbling across a photo of him and Fabio dancing on a table. He isn’t sure his media team will be chuffed about it but it isn’t the worst that could have been captured on camera; his mind flashes to Valentino kneeling in front of him and he groans. He tosses his phone back onto the nightstand and closes his eyes, willing away the pounding behind his eyes.

He drifts in and out of slumber for some time, until he is awoken by someone knocking on the door. He groans, dreading the thought of interacting with another person when he feels like hell warmed over. Hauling himself out of bed and shuffling to open the door, Marc tries to muster up a smile. Relief floods him when he sees Dovi standing on the other side with two cups of steaming hot coffee. Dovi winces in sympathy when he sees Marc, which is never a good sign. He must look worse for wear, unsurprising considering the sheer quantity of ethanol he drank last night. Marc smiles grimly and moves aside to let the older man in, trailing behind Dovi into the living room and throwing himself onto the sofas. He instantly snuggles into the comfort, prompting a loud laugh from Dovi, which echoes in his skull. He glares at the older man, who promptly quietens, suitably chastised. A light kick to his calf from Dovi tells him to shuffle over with a huff, making more room on the sofa. He sits down next to Marc and hands him a coffee. The younger hums as he sips it, closing his eyes in pleasure.

“So about last night”, Dovi starts, a slightly humorous tone in his voice.  

Marc stares at him in confusion. Last night? What had happened? He furiously wracks his brain, drawing a blank. Memories of dancing ridiculously to a pounding bass and drinking far too much bounce around his head. He pointedly does not allow his traitorous brain to slip to Valentino, not now. Nothing else comes to mind; he tilts his head at Dovi in confusion. 

“Ah, you don’t remember. You were rather drunk at that point. Um, you kissed me, yes. Although not long after you went on a rant about Valentino. Something about him looking good on his knees… I believe.” Dovi blurts with a mixture of embarrassment and amusement. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Marc remembers soft lips and tongue. Marc blushes furiously, turning bright red. The thought of forcing himself onto Dovi makes him grimace in humiliation. They’ve hooked up a couple of times before, but to kiss him in public feels wrong. Especially when Marc knows that he still has strong feelings for Valentino, as misguided as they may be. He forces himself not to think about Vale in this situation, of the vague form of the older man on his knees in front of Marc – God had he told Dovi?

“Oh god, I can explain”, Marc stutters. Dovi holds up a placating hand, laughing slightly at Marc’s panicked face. 

“No need. You love him, yes? I understand. Well, maybe not understand, but you love him and that is what matters. Do not worry about the kiss, water under the bridge. I think you’re a fantastic friend and I’m very happy to leave it like that. Although, I don’t think I approve of your choice of men”, Dovi remarks. He sighs slightly, staring at Marc in consideration.  

“I think he will try, for you. Valentino will give up at nothing to get what he wants, you know that. If he wants you, for real, he will stop at nothing until he has you, or at least until you shut him down. You should talk to him. Preferably when you’re sober.” Dovi continues. 

Marc considers the statement carefully, mulling it over in his brain. He knows Valentino is determined and annoyingly stubborn; he has unfortunate first-hand experience. It is a shared trait that has previously ruined their relationship. Yet, determination is also their strength; Marc’s resilience to misfortune and Valentino’s longevity in the sport show that. Last night, Valentino got onto his knees for Marc and practically begged for forgiveness, showing such raw emotions that it was jarring. Marc was captivated, barely listening as Valentino apologised and promised to make amends. He doesn’t know how truthful it was. Marc isn’t stupid, he knows Valentino was drunk and there is every possibility it meant nothing, that Valentino doesn’t care. It’s terrifying. But then Luca showed up, berating Valentino as if he were the older sibling. He told Marc that Vale loves him, destroying any hope of him putting this behind him, or getting ‘over it’.

(Then again, it had already been ten years, what’s another ten?)

 Luca isn’t a cruel person and he certainly isn’t a liar. He and Marc have always had a civil relationship, despite Valentino and Marc’s poor rapport in recent years. It is not in Luca’s nature to do something like that to retaliate, yet Marc cannot seem to believe him. Love? People in love don’t act like Valentino does, talking down on their beloved and being obsessively critical. Marc heaves a deep breath, mulling over the idea, inspecting it from every angle. Valentino’s obsession makes more sense in this light, a potential reason for the endless onslaught of criticism and nit-picking. Years of bitter hatred and heartbreak make love feel like a foreign concept. For Marc, it has been a decade of resentment turned into resignation. He has never allowed himself to imagine their future, always safer to assume they would remain legends of the sport, orbiting each other but never crossing paths again. Valentino would continue to go on his talk shows and make comments about Marc, whilst Marc would pretend not to care. Now though, he allows himself a glimpse of the daydream. Of soft mornings in bed and midnight rides along coastal roads. He closes his eyes and can almost hear the rumble of engines at the ranch and the sound of the academy, laughing as they whipped around the track, Marc and Valentino amongst them. Marc tries to hold back the hope unfurling within him.

Dovi sits beside him in companionable silence whilst Marc has a minor breakdown over Valentino. Their knees brush as they drain the last of their coffee. Dovi starts the conversation about the next race in Aragon. They decide that Dovi will visit again on Sunday, and keep in contact in between; Marc is torn between gratitude and embarrassment that his friends feel they need to babysit him like this. He settles on gratitude but promises himself to be stronger next time; Dovi appears to pick up on Marc’s self-criticism, elbowing him gently with a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. When Dovi gets up to leave, Marc follows, pulling him into a grateful hug.

“Thank you. For everything.” He whispers against Dovi’s shoulder.

The older man pulls back and grins, ruffling his hair affectionately. Dovi has stayed with him through it all; he has allowed Marc to cry on him, and laugh with him.

(and snog him whilst off his face on cocktails)

As he watches Dovi leave, Marc cannot help but feel indebted to the older man for all he has done. Marc sighs, spinning away from the door and mentally collating the list of things he must do today, most importantly packing up and leaving Italy. He pulls himself into the bathroom, hoping to make himself feel more human. The hot water from the shower beats down, washing away the grime from last night. It is always Marc’s go-to after a rough night; the warmth settles into his bones. Afterwards, he steels himself to swallow a couple of ibuprofen pulls with a protein bar, to soothe his aching head.

He puts on a casual outfit before he heads out to find his brother (hopefully not in Franko Morbidelli’s motorhome). As a last-minute thought, he places a pair of sunglasses on the bridge of his nose- he’s done post-race celebrations enough times to know how to conquer the next day. Marc is barely down the steps when he spots him, freezing in place. Valentino is walking across the path, his eyebrows creased into a small frown of pain- he looks like he’s suffering as much as Marc. Valentino must feel eyes on him, as he stops in his tracks and meets Marc’s gaze, Marc feels pinned to the spot. He’s instantly assaulted by the mental image of Vale begging on his knees at his feet He physically shakes his head to dislodge the thought. Valentino shuffles closer whilst Marc is distracted, now only a foot away. 

“Marc” Valentino whispers, looking slightly in awe. 

“What, Vale?” Marc sighs, he feels tired and the nickname slips out by mistake, again. Valentino stares. 

“I’ve missed you calling me that” Valentino admits. Marc’s heart aches at the admission. 

Marc licks his lips. Valentino eyes follow the movement. Marc tilts his head and swallows slowly, deliberately. Valentino has to tear his eyes away. Interesting. Maybe his hopes were not completely unfounded.

“We should do this away from prying eyes, huh?” Marc questions.

The younger man sighs, turning around and pulling Vale back into the motorhome. If they’re going to have this conversation, they should definitely do it in private and sooner rather than later; Alex will have to wait. Once they’re safely inside, with the door locked, Marc looks at Valentino expectantly. Vale can't seem to decide where to look, bouncing from Marc’s lips to his eyes, to the wall, to the rumpled blankets on the sofas. When the older man looks back, Marc feels drunk on the determination set in Valentino’s eyes. It is such a familiar look on Valentino, but it’s so attractive that it makes him a bit stupid, his brain lagging as Valentino begins to talk.

“Congratulations on winning, you deserve it. It was one hell of a race. The top step looks good on you. It always has.” Valentino admits, leaving Marc gobsmacked. Valentino’s worried face tells him that he hasn’t finished his speech.

“I hope you and Dovi are happy” Valentino chokes out, sounding resigned and slightly upset. Marc startles, that certainly isn’t what he expected from this talk.  

“Fucking hell, not you as well”, he groans. 

Valentino's eyes widen, shock evident.  

“I saw him leave,” Valentino says, his voice exasperated. Marc laughs, Valentino looks sceptical like he thinks Marc is tricking him.

(and isn’t that on brand)

“We aren’t dating, Vale. He’s a friend and a good one at that. But nothing more”, Marc comments, purposefully gentle. He wants to say more but is distracted by how Vale relaxes in relief. Maybe Luca was right. 

Marc takes a step closer, encroaching on Valentino’s personal space and cataloguing how the older man’s gaze darts across his face. It feels powerful, to have Vale like this, hooked by every breath Marc takes. Valentino exhales. Marc takes another step, placing them chest to chest; Marc has to tilt his head up to watch Valentino, whose irises are engulfed by the black of his pupils. Very slowly, Marc stretches onto his toes and brushes his lips against Vale’s, praying that he hasn’t read this wrong. Vale reacts like he has been shocked, spurring into action and he pushes back into Marc, deepening the kiss as he leans down. Marc groans into it, unable to form any coherent thought, only focussing on the sensation of Valentino pressed to his front and his tongue in Marc’s mouth. Valentino huffs a breath, breaking for air. It thrusts Marc back into reality – he remembers last night.

 Marc pulls away from Valentino slightly, they have to talk about this, Marc promised himself that he wouldn’t just fall at the first sign of reciprocation from Vale. There is still a decade’s worth of hurt between them that they cannot ignore. Valentino tries to reach for him, to reel him back in, but Marc steps away.

“Marc, please, come on”, Vale gasps.

Marc pointedly does not relent.

“We need to talk Valentino”, he says.

“We have talked, you are not dating Dovi. I congratulated you on the race and now we should kiss more.” Valentino suggests. Marc rolls his eyes, trying to contain his frustration. If only it was that easy.

“That’s all you wanted to talk about? Nothing else?” He forces his voice to stay neutral but gets nothing in return, there is no sign of recognition. Marc tries not to let the anger bubble over, instead he grinds his teeth. 

“Do you remember last night Vale?”, he snaps. 

Valentino frowns, “What about last night?” he replies. Marc grinds his teeth. 

“You know, the bit where you got drunk and then fell to your knees and begged for forgiveness.” Marc snarls, frustration finally boiling over.  

Valentino shakes his head, looking slightly embarrassed. Marc isn't sure he’s ever seen the older man embarrassed. He can’t even bring himself to feel vindictive. 

“No, I didn’t” he proclaimed. Marc glares in response, his eyes filled with fury.  

“Oh, you did. I knew it was just because you were drunk. Fucking hell Vale, we can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep doing this. You need to leave me alone”, Marc growls. His face shutters as he speaks, giving away nothing – a blank slate.  

“That’s what you want is it?”, Valentino says, his voice raising to almost a shout.  

“No, of course I don’t Vale, don’t be stupid. It has always been you pushing me away. You’re being cruel. Do not act like I am the bad guy now, it is not fair”, Marc shouts. He shocks himself with the pain evident in his voice. He feels like he will never heal from this. Valentino has injected poison into his veins, destroying his heart one day at a time. A concoction of rage and hurt boils inside him.

“Don’t do this to me again. Please don’t fucking do this. God Vale, I can’t keep getting my hopes up and having them crushed. We have to stop this. You have to leave me alone.”  Marc spits, the words flowing out of him, uncontained now that he’s started.  

“I don’t want to leave you alone”, Valentino growls.  

“That's not fair, you need to make a decision.”, Marc replies. 

Valentino scowls, “I’m trying to make one, I try to tell you but it’s hard!”. 

“You either want me or you don’t. You either love me or you don’t. I love you so fucking much it hurts.” Marc whispers. Valentino falls silent, his hand by his sides and his face slack. Marc doesn’t want silence, they don’t do silence or feelings, they do pure visceral hatred and shouting.

“Come on fight me on this, tell me you hate me. It’ll be easier than whatever the fuck is going on”, Marc is shouting now, a few tears rolling down his cheeks. Valentino lets him shout- Marc hates it.  

“What are you doing? Fight me, you bastard. Just do something. You’re meant to hate me.”, Marc yells. 

Valentino simply stands there, letting Marc yell. Years of anger, heartbreak, and hurt burst out, filling the room with harsh truths and insults. Marc tells Valentino his darkest secrets and sobs as he says ‘I love you’. A part of Valentino breaks. Marc shouldn’t be crying when he says those words, he shouldn’t be crying at all.

“For God’s sake what’s wrong with you?”, Marc sobs.  

“I’m tired, Marc. I’m tired of pretending that I don’t love you.”, Vale whispers back.

Marc chokes. 

“I truly am sorry. I will be forever and I regret so many things. I realise I have so much to sort out. I may still feel some anger over the past but you are right that it was not your fault. You were an easy person to blame and that was not fair. I spent too long trying to push you away, to destroy you. I never looked to see what it had done, it was easier to pretend you weren’t human, that you didn’t feel. I was so afraid of everything I felt for you. I understand if you can never forgive me but I will spend every day till the end of my life trying to prove to you that I’m sorry.”, Valentino gasps, fighting for breath through his stumbling words.  

Marc can’t cope with this anymore. He can't cope with the ghost of Valentino’s lips pressed against his own, nor the enormity of all he has just said. He cannot believe it has come to this- arguing in Marc’s motorhome and shouting ‘I love you’. Marc might cry, he doesn’t look back once as he rushes to the door, pulling it open and stepping into the bright sunlight outside. He can’t do this right now; he can’t look at Valentino and his promises for another second. His heart feels fragile in his chest, beating out of time.

Marc flees.

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.

Chapter Text

Valentino gets home late on Monday evening with a million thoughts in his head and the heavy weight of exhaustion clinging to him. The beginnings of a headache are throbbing behind his temples, an indicator of a long weekend of overthinking. Despite this, Valentino cannot rest, too wired from a weekend full of mistakes and surprises. It has categorically been one of the worst weekends of Vale’s life. From finding out about Marc’s past and watching him fall apart in front of his eyes, to somehow making it even worse by opening his mouth. In hindsight, he realises that historical emotions with no place in the present fuelled their exchanges, lighting the spark for an inevitable detonation. He let his ego rule his mind, took it out on Marc and was disbelieving even as he stared down the truth. Not his finest moments. It has taken too many years to realise that he loves Marc and now he is faced with the incomprehensible fact that he might lose him altogether if he can’t make amends.

He used to know Marc so well; he doesn’t know when he stopped understanding every intricacy and started attributing them all to some form of evil. But somewhere along the way, every little thing Marc did was labelled as corrupt and dangerous in his mind. It costs his pride to set the habitual instinct aside, knowing he has made mistakes along the way. He is now going against years of conditioning intended to forget the affection he once felt for Marc. And yet here he is sitting in his kitchen, back at square one, after years of messing things up for both himself and Marc, with that same affection reignited and his heart shattered by his own mistakes.

Despite a greater acceptance of his shortcomings in the past years, Valentino struggles to swallow the realisation that this was his fault. Somewhere deep inside, a stubborn part of him protests the concept; it is the same fragment which is still bitter about 2015 and the loss of his tenth title. When Valentino allows himself to think about it, he still feels some frustration about the 2015 season, both with himself and Marc. But he can also look back and realise that he was a grown adult and Marc was 22; one of them should have known better, and it wasn’t Marc. Moreover, instead of choking down his anger at the time, and talking to Marc privately, Valentino decided to air it out to the world at large. He tries to push the feelings down and bottle them up, unwilling to let something as fragile as an ego ruin this. Valentino’s ego destroyed their relationship last time- a combination of his self-importance and visceral need to win. Alongside, there was a self-doubt which niggled at the back of his mind for years until he let it engulf him. He began to doubt Marc’s loyalty and trustworthiness, even though Marc looked at him like he held the sun. He can now identify that his feelings were a combination of the dread that Marc could be better than him and the fear of his overwhelming and undeniably romantic feelings for the younger man.

It's all irrelevant now. Valentino has spent a decade screwing it up and denying his feelings. Now, he must weigh up whether Marc, the continuation of his legacy as the best, or his pride are more important.

(The choice is surprisingly easy)

Valentino takes a deep breath, blowing it out between his teeth and screwing his eyes shut. He needs a plan. And yet, he’s still at a loss about how to get Marc back. He has tried begging, reasoning, and telling the truth but none have worked.

 Albeit, he thinks bitterly, after each attempt, he promptly screwed it up again. He imagines it might take time for Marc to come around. It had taken Valentino years to destroy him and almost a decade to realise his own stupidity - he should give Marc time now. But patience has never been Valentino’s virtue, and he reckons he can speed up the process a little – some more positive interviews, or some flowers and much sweet talking. Nothing too overbearing, but Marc has always had a bit of a thing for praise, especially from Valentino.

No matter how hard he tries though, it is uncertain whether Marc will ever be able to trust him again. After everything that has happened between them, it feels like a far-off prospect. It doesn’t help that Marc had physically run away from him in Misano, fleeing his motorhome and leaving Vale standing there like an idiot, feeling bereft.

Now he almost wishes that he stayed, waiting for Marc to come back. He doesn’t focus too much on the small voice saying that he probably deserved to be abandoned by Marc. Thankfully, he didn’t have a long drive afterwards, and it was even quicker when he had barely paid attention to the road, too tied up in his thoughts. He was glad that the winding roads had been almost deserted, allowing him to follow the route by muscle memory, barely twitching at the occasional set of oncoming headlights.

His thoughts are running away from him, spinning off on tangents like what his journey home was like, rather than the task at hand. It is a solid indicator of his fatigue. The next time he looks at the clock, it’s almost midnight, signifying that he’s been sitting in one position for far too long. He groans as he hauls himself out of his chair, his knees cracking. He feels like this weekend has aged him. He pops his back and stretches his arms above his head, shifting as he tries to gather the will to move to his bedroom.

Exhaustion weighs heavily on him whilst he half heartedly brushes his teeth, skipping along shower until tomorrow.  He shucks his clothes off before throwing himself into bed, feeling overwhelmingly grateful that he has the money for the fancy mattresses he adores. He falls asleep quickly, his overactive mind shutting down to give him a brief respite. Before he retired, sleeping used to be tough after a race weekend fuelled by adrenaline, now though he usually sleeps like a baby.  Dreams come in hazy wisps of half-formed scenes. A young Marc giggles at something Valentino has said, an older version of him studiously avoiding his eyes. A flash of tanned skins and thundering engines. The harsh words which were cruelly spat at each other all those years ago. He is thrown from dream to dream, his imagination running wild.

Valentino sleeps until the sun is already high in the sky. He is endlessly grateful for mornings in bed on Mondays. The joys of retiring early. He showers quickly, perfunctory, and avoids thinking of Marc or his perfect face and plush lips lest his body betrays him. He towels himself down in much the same way and sets to start his day. He’s already written off a productive week, content to relax and wallow in self-pity after the shit show of a weekend. He putters around the kitchen for a bit, making himself some breakfast and a coffee, taking the time to do it in the fancy way that he usually brushes off as too excessive. Clutching his mug and plate, he wanders into the living room, laying his breakfast on the coffee table. He grabs his laptop and settles on the sofa. Now that he has returned to the safety of his own home, Valentino has plans to go online to read watch and consume every piece of literature about Marc Marquez that he had missed over the last decade. Thankfully, he already knows plenty: his rookie years, family, and success he is intimately familiar with. But he’s shied away from much of it: the crashes, his recovery, relationships, and the recent news. He has to start somewhere – for some reason, he thinks the crashes (and there are many) might be easiest.

Before he even consciously thinks about it, the video of Jerez is loading on his laptop – go big or go home and all of that. He watches in a half-daze and winces when Marc is thrown off the bike; the high side seems to happen in slow motion as he is flung through the air before slamming back into the earth. Valentino’s sharp gaze focuses on how Marc grits his teeth, his arm hanging limply by his side. He knows it was bad; he was there. He hadn’t seen the actual crash, and it is different now seeing it as it happened. He remembers that day, his bitter and forced indifference at the time. The vicious kind of vindication that Marc could not finish after Vale’s race had ended prematurely. Looking back now, it was fairly indicative of Valentino’s not-normal feelings. Afterwards, when he became aware of the surgery, an odd combination of panic and pleasure coursed through him. It was one less championship to Marc’s name, but Valentino also dedicated himself to researching the surgery and ensuring the doctors were the very best that money could buy. He had stopped looking into Marc's treatment after the second surgery, attempting to distance himself and by surgery number four, he thought Marc would retire – he didn’t know how to feel about that.

The video loops. He rewatches it until he can memorise the exact second Marc lost the bike, the angle at which it bucks, and the pain on his face when he thinks the cameras are no longer watching. Marc looks like he wants to scream in agony every time. Valentino wants to burn the circuit to the ground. The next time through, Valentino doesn’t click replay, staring numbly at the screen, the vision of Marc falling seared behind his eyelids. The next video loads before he can stop it. It’s a clip of Marc talking to a camera, a distant look in his eyes; it’s from that stupid documentary - the one Valentino has been avoiding for years. He hums thoughtfully, if he wants to get to know Marc again, this might be a good idea. How bad could it be? A quick Google search tells him where to watch it and it’s all too easy to set it up on his too-large TV and press play.

Valentino didn’t expect it to be so excruciating, seeing it so clearly laid out in front of his eyes. It’s difficult to watch. Whenever Valentino is mentioned, Marc’s face shutters slightly and Valentino finds himself physically recoiling from the pain in Marc’s voice. He trains his eyes on the screen, no matter how much he wants to look away. Surprisingly, the documentary cements that Marc is willing to rip himself apart to win, sinking his teeth into success and clutching on for dear life. Although Valentino already knew this; he didn’t realise Marc was willing to show everyone else. What he didn’t know is that, before it all fell apart, every time Marc did something wildly impressive, he looked to Valentino after, as if to seek his approval. In this light, Marc looks unbearably enamoured and so keen to please. He can see how Marc tore his heart open to keep Vale, only to be left with the tattered remains of their relationship – it aches. Unsurprisingly, there is also venom in Marc’s family’s descriptions of Valentino. Watching Roser talk about throwing his merchandise away after their fallout makes him wince. He remembers the smugness he felt when he lied to the Italian media as if he didn’t see the awe in Marc’s eyes. He remembers the first time he met a young Marc and the startling clarity that he was Marc’s world back then. (He remembered then too). Guilt engulfs him. He turns off the documentary and closes his eyes, unable to continue. His coffee is cold.

The rest of the morning passes in a blur, he organises his bookcase and then his room. He ambles around the track and rewatches some races from before Marc’s premier class debut. He locks himself in his office, passing the time by organising and doing trivial admin tasks which he has been putting off for months. He doesn’t feel like eating but forces himself to choke down a slice of plain toast, it still makes him nauseous. By the time he’s settled on the sofa again, the clock has struck nine and the light has faded to a pale dusk. The TV feels like it’s taunting him, its red light winking threateningly. He stares at the black screen.

A memory springs to life from the depth of his mind, unbidden. Marc, baby-faced and eager in 2013, in some shitty bar God knows where. He was drunk, absolutely hammered, his phone clutched in his hand as he waved it around, showing Valentino the pictures of his childhood room, full of old merch (most of it was Valentino’s). He remembers being unbearably fond, incredibly old, and slightly embarrassed on Marc’s behalf. A strangled noise erupts from the back of his throat. He had lied, to everyone; he had always known Marc had idolised him and he had taken that vulnerability and stabbed him in the back. Valentino feels sick, a vivid picture of Marc’s mum in the documentary, her disapproval clear to the world, even as Marc had remained hopeful.

Valentino can’t bring himself to turn the TV back on. He is a coward. He stumbles to his feet and fills a tumbler from the kitchen with whiskey - the expensive shit that Pecco got him last Christmas. He doesn’t want to think about it, about Marc, and he certainly doesn’t want to feel anything. So, he does what he does best and ignores it all, playing melancholy music through his too-expensive sound speaker and drinking away his sorrows and regrets. He doesn’t think of anything, or maybe he does – it all passes in a blur. The remnant shred of his sanity takes charge after three drinks, reminding him that alcohol is not actually the solution to all his problems. He leaves the glass on the side, promising himself that he will wash it up tomorrow. Staggering to his bedroom is an unwelcome reminder that he is far too old to be drinking alone in his empty house, he suddenly feels strangely lonely. He avoids looking at the single toothbrush in the holder and the shower which only contains one set of body wash and shampoo. He ignores the thought that he wishes there were two. By the time he has finished in the ensuite and crossed the room to his bed, his eyes are already drooping. Valentino falls into a dreamless sleep the minute he hits the mattress.

*

The next day, Vale plans to watch the 2015 season from start to finish, and then study the replays of all the worst races across their time as competitors - Sepang, Argentina, Jerez, and Philip Island, the ones Valentino considers the turning points for their relationship. He is determined to pick apart the catalysts of their supernova implosion. It is a strange sensation to watch the worsening of their relationship as an outsider on the screen. He can barely bring himself to watch Sepang, too embarrassed by his childish and unsportsmanlike behaviour. He didn’t like Marc’s behaviour that year and didn’t enjoy losing (he never had). But the lies were atrocious, let alone thinking of what they led to. He turns it off before the press conference. He remembers how Marc had looked all too well, how he looked amused at first like it was all some elaborate joke before his face fell and shock took over.

He watches some of the better ones too, where he would pull Marc close in parc fermé and spray him with champagne on the podium. Marc looked so happy, so young, and in awe of Valentino. A startling difference from the Marc he now knows, to the one he created. His current Marc ignores Vale, putting up his walls whenever they interact, so much so that Valentino can barely recognise the real him. In his head, he can’t seem to reconcile all the Marcs, the real and the fake, the ones he knows and doesn’t. Valentino wonders which Marc is real, which Alex gets, and which Dovi gets. Is there even a real one, is it all an act, or is he all the Marcs in one?

It is a testament to how little Valentino knows Marc because, as much as he doesn’t want to think about it, apparently, he also relied on painkillers and was so hurt after everything that happened that he tried to end his life (twice). And even though he was there to witness it all, Valentino hadn't even realised. Marc fears vulnerability (he didn’t before), keeps his cards close to his chest, and doesn’t let anyone in; it makes him want to scream. He doesn’t understand how he missed it. He watches the end of the 2015 season particularly closely, searching for an indicator that Marc was feeling so low, any slip of his mask to see the true feelings beneath. He tries to find the clues that he missed, back then, the hints that Marc was struggling, if only he had looked. It hurts, watching, seeing Marc go from joyful and naive to guarded over a year is so obvious now that he is not overwhelmed by resentment. The pain wrenches at his gut, pulling painfully like a fishhook and making unnamed emotions rise within him. To the rest of the world, Marc is indifferent, a jokester, portraying a happy persona despite his internal turbulence, just like he was before Valentino. It is almost unfathomable that he didn’t notice him shutting down, the way his face would fall when Valentino was cruel or blasé. In the early years, of 2015 and 16, Marc hadn’t learnt how to throw up his walls quickly enough and his eyes betrayed him, if you knew what to look for. Over time he got better, or maybe he just stopped caring and became numb to it all.  He did this, he hurt Marc in unspeakable ways. He thinks that if he were Marc, he would never forgive himself.

For a split second, he pauses and wonders why he is doing this to himself, putting himself through all this pain. But then he considers the pain he caused for Marc, how his face had crumbled at the press conference of Friday, and the awful truth of the past which stares him down. Marc deserves better, and Valentino wants to give him that. He imagines his face after winning, looking so alive, his beautiful smile which lights up a room, and his ability to overcome anything. So, Valentino mentally prepares himself, turns on the documentary and wades his way through the rest of the programme, for Marc. Occasionally, he must tear his eyes away when it becomes too much, and Marc’s pain becomes too apparent. He feels sick at the end of it, sick and wrung out. So weighed down by his guilt that he doesn’t think he will ever stand up again.

Valentino’s curious though, wondering quite how bad it all was medically, how much he fucked up. He opens his phone, searching for every article he can find about Marc’s extensive injuries and hospital records. It is like one of those sick fascinations where he doesn’t want to keep reading, to torture himself, but he cannot help it, he wants to know more. He reads it all until it’s tattooed on his brain. The surgeries, the failed attempts at recovery, mainly due to Marc’s frankly stupid plan to get onto a bike again so soon. The man has always had a death wish, unafraid of falling, throwing himself into the deep end. Fall or win – die or live. Marc ran on a scale of dichotomy. He looks at the scars marring Marc’s skin, how they transform him into something unbearably more attractive, determination written on his skin. The medical records are difficult to digest. Of course, he has already seen them, but this time he imagines, feels, and believes it (he still feels guilty about that too). He is shocked that the descriptions are so… vivid. He puts himself in Marc’s shoes, well as much as he can, and considers how he would feel if suddenly everyone knew his secrets, an intimately private part of his life. Evidently, the whole arm situation isn’t new, but Valentino doesn’t think that anyone knew Marc experienced chronic pain – every day. He must admit, riding through that is incredibly impressive, but also terrifying. He can’t believe that Marc hides it so well, the fact that he is constantly in agony is chilling.

Valentino reads on. He didn’t know about the medication, but why would he? The word addiction haunts him. He doesn’t think too much about the suicide, he just reads. If he does it will break him. He might already be broken. At some point, he switches from putting himself in Marc’s shoes to imagining if he was there. What if he had been the one to find Marc and not Alex? If he and Marc were still friends, would Marc fall asleep on him as he does with Dovi? Would he trust Marc to give him the right dose of painkillers when he needs them? The more he thinks about it, he realises that he wants to be the person Marc turns to when his arm aches; the one to massage it and look after Marc when he’s on the strong shit that they give you for this kind of pain. The domesticity of the fantasy shocks him, it was never like this before. He wishes he could turn back time, to be that person, but instead, he is sitting alone in his empty house, reading about the man he used to adore because he has been too busy lamenting in hatred to care.

Valentino gives up on functioning afterwards, devastated by the loss of the life and love he could have had if he had opened his eyes. He cries until he can’t produce another tear. He gets drunk on an expensive bottle of wine and wrecks his kitchen in a fit of anger. He flits between despair, rage, and depression. He sobs into his hands, before he throws his glass against the wall, spilling red wine everywhere, staining the floor. It’ll be a bitch to clean. He doesn’t care, not when he’s staring into the face of a reality where he almost lost Marc. His Marc, who overdosed twice because of Valentino's stupid actions and his belief that it was a God-given right for him to win a tenth title. He doesn’t think Marc was wholly right, even now, for what he did back then, for how he raced. But he never needed to react the way he did, to cause a stir and turn everyone against him. He let them break into Marc’s home, threatening him and his family. At the time, he had thought it was funny, now he recognises the concealed fear and anger in Marc’s eyes. Upset. Not for himself, but for his family, especially his little brother. He imagines if it was him in Marc’s position. If it was Luca. His stomach sinks. Suddenly he is filled with an overwhelming sense of self-hatred. The most painful part is his own failings- that he wasn’t there for Marc when he needed it most, that he caused it. If it wasn’t for his own stubborn misconceptions or his overinflated ego, this might have all been prevented. Guilt eats him alive. He is a horrible person, he hates himself. He does not deserve Marc.

The dreams start that night. He begins to have nightmares, screaming himself awake at 2 am as he once again watches Marc hit the gravel and fall still, lying motionless on the ground. Lifeless, like he had thought for a heart-stopping moment on Saturday. He sits bolt upright, drenched in sweat and panting like a dog. He has to make himself tea to calm down. After, he sits in bed, with the light on, staring at the wall for an undetermined amount of time. By the time he settles, it’s 4 am and the first cracks of dawn are rising – he doesn’t sleep again.

The next night is the same, this time an endless montage of Marc screaming in pain after Jerez, of him high siding so severely that he gets double vision again, or shatters both arms, an ambulance taking him away on a stretcher as he shouts himself hoarse. It shifts into something different, darker. It starts okay, a normal race weekend, except Valentino is on the bike again and he kicks out at Marc, who goes flying. He doesn’t move again after that, dead or paralysed or some other awful fate. He shouts himself awake in the middle of the night once more. There is a soft, wet nose pushing against his leg – one of the dogs. He must have woken them. He shifts, moving to the side of the bed and letting his toes dig into the soft rug, trying to ground himself. He stands quietly and pads down into the kitchen. He has only slept a few hours, but the thought of going back to bed makes him feel sick. He makes a coffee and goes outside. He walks until the sun is rising and his feet hurt. He is aware he must look crazy, in sleep clothes and hair mused. He is glad no one else can see.

When he gets back, he looks in the cupboard for food but then he imagines Marc, still as a statue, and promptly loses his appetite. He doesn’t know what he does that day, time is thick and sticky, moving slowly as he simply exists. He dreams again at night, Valentino is stuck in the garage, unable to move or help as Marc slips from his bike, high sides, and crashes. Again, and again. Misano, Jerez, Silverstone, Sepang, Malaysia.  It turns fuzzy after the 30^th crash, the 30^th time he watches Marc die. This time he is in an unfamiliar home, empty and quiet. He calls out but gets no answer, so he begins to wander. The house is huge, cavernous and bare – all stark whites and polished surfaces. It feels vaguely familiar, certain items on the sides that tickle his memory. He pushes a door open, there’s an unmade bed and a helmet on the side. It clicks - Marc’s house. Valentino wants to run, but he also wants to stay. Curiosity gets the best of him. Marc’s room is the only part of the house which looks like him, it is strange to have such exuberance and such a boring house. He pushes open the adjoining door, opposite the bed, it leads to an ensuite – he sees the gigantic shower head. Then he sees the body. It’s Marc’s body with blood pooled around him and soaking his clothes, the source unidentifiable. There is an empty box of pills and a half-full vodka bottle next to him. Valentino dry heaves. He bends down, touching Marc’s face, searching for a pulse. Valentino screams.

He's crying when he opens his eyes, tears that roll down his cheek and turn into big, gasping sobs. He can barely breathe and he’s shaking. Getting his legs steady enough to walk into his ensuite takes nearly half an hour. He looks at the shower and automatically scans the floor. Almost immediately he is bent over the toilet, throwing up the minimal food he has eaten recently. He doesn’t look at the floor again, he is smart enough not to make the same mistake twice. When he looks in the mirror, he doesn’t recognise himself. There are dark purple bags under his eyes and his cheeks look gaunt. His face looks puffy and red from crying. He washes his face and cleans his teeth without meeting his gaze. It's like déjà vu, silently tiptoeing down his hallway to the kitchen before the sun has risen for the third time in as many days. They have blurred together into a montage of his own imagination. Between daytime and nighttime, he is plagued by horrible thoughts. He imagines Marc not recovering after Jerez or 2015, a life without Marc, and MotoGP without Marc. He doesn’t sleep again.

It’s Pecco who finds him, maybe 4 days later, barely functioning and no longer sleeping at all. He doesn’t know what day it is, and his only indicator of time is the sun in the sky. His house is a mess, and he doesn’t remember the last time he ate, let alone cooked. There is still glass on the floor from when he smashed it. Pecco looks at him with barely disguised panic which melts into sympathy when Vale feels tears burn in his eyes. Valentino guesses there's something rather off-putting about seeing your mentor in such a state. He watches in a daze as Pecco begins to tidy before ordering Valentino to shower. He finds new clothes out of his dresser, wincing when he realises how disgusting he is. The shower is nice, he turns up the heat as high as it will go, almost scorching, trying to burn the feelings out of him. Once he’s out of the shower, feeling slightly more human, he wanders back into the living after. Luca is pushing through the front door simultaneously, his eyes wide as he takes in the messy house and Valentino’s appearance.

“Oh, Vale” he whispers, striding forward and pulling his big brother into a hug. Valentino lets go, sobbing into Luca’s shoulder and letting the younger man haul him to the sofa. He clutches onto his little brother’s hoodie, shoving his face into the crook between his shoulder and neck. He tries to quieten his crying, but still ends up gasping in between sobs, it is slightly mortifying. At some point, he must fall asleep because the next thing he knows a glass of water is being pushed into his hands and a bowl of soup placed on the table. The washing machine is humming in the background, the curtains have been opened, letting in midmorning light, and the room is much tidier. Luce is standing over him, with Pecco loitering over his shoulder.

“When did you last eat?” Pecco asks, his trepidation apparent.

“Um, I’m not sure”, Valentino answers under his breath, embarrassed.

Luca sighs but does not reply, pushing the bowl towards Vale and staring at him expectantly until he begins eating. He hums appreciatively. It’s good, probably home cooked, and he is a little hungry. He knows once he’s finished, they’ll try to talk to him, he’s endlessly grateful to them for helping but it’s humiliating; he’s 46, and he should have his life under control. Pecco and Luca continue to tidy the house and feed him as if he is in his twenties and not them – he did not think he would ever sink so low. Once they are done, and Valentino has finished eating, they come back into the room, sitting on the opposite sofa and observing Vale in silence. He clears his throat awkwardly; it makes Luca sigh.

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself.” He starts, “you are going have to talk to him at some point, rather than wallowing in self-pity”.

Valentino stares at the floor, gulping a deep breath before he speaks.

“Did you know? About Marc, the surgeries, chronic pain, the suicide.” He asks; it is unclear whether he is directing the question at Luca or Pecco.

Pecco shakes his head, trying to catch Valentino’s eyes to convey his earnestness.

“No, not the suicide, or the painkillers – I don’t think anyone had any idea, apart from Alex. Dovi said he didn’t know either.” Pecco whispers. At the mention of Dovi, Vale whips his head towards Pecco.

“You spoke to Dovi?” Valentino questions, he knows his voice is doing something funny, the now familiar feeling of jealousy stirring within. Luca groans.

 “On Sunday, after the race. I knew about the pain, Marc never quite rode the same since Jerez, I asked him about it ages ago but knew that he was lying – I pieced together the rest myself.” Pecco reveals. “He hides it well, I am not sure how he does it, considering everything that we now know”

Luca interrupts him, “Vale, what happened?”

Valentino sighs, telling them about the past few days – researching Marc, freaking out, the nightmares. By the time he is done, they have established that it is Saturday, 3pm. Luca suggests that he should contact Marc, get some closure to it all or try again, but Valentino immediately vetoes the idea, countering that now is not the right time. Luca rolls his eyes, muttering under his breath about it never being the right time and then he changes tact. He suggests that the boys should come over, they could stay a few nights, maybe practice. Even though Valentino knows it is to keep an eye on him (because he's incapable of being an adult), he doesn’t protest. Some company sounds nice right now, he doesn’t want to be alone with his thoughts at the moment, and maybe it could also distract him from Marc.

(Wishful thinking)

Chapter Text

Meanwhile, in Madrid, Alex is on the verge of tearing his hair out. He can take so much of his brother’s sulking when the solution is so obvious. It’s driving him insane. It would be much easier if Valentino and Marc could figure out the art of communication. Alex has always looked up to his brother but he is seriously lacking in the love department. Or maybe he’s just an idiot around Valentino – the jury is still out on that one.

Marc had flown home on Monday in a foul mood which hasn’t improved over the past few days. Much to Alex’s chagrin, he has been quiet all week- sullen, trapped inside his head, and moping around the house. To be fair to his brother, Alex does somewhat understand. Occasionally, he forgets that Marc had been through more hell than just Valentino and their fucked-up relationship this weekend. Alex was there in the aftermath of their ruin and it was categorically the worst part of his life. This week, they have both been studiously avoiding the news, determined to ignore how it has all been uprooted.

Their parents rang yesterday, questioning in panicked voices if everything was okay, and threatening to come over with home-cooked meals. Alex is surprised that they lasted so long, he thought his mum would be threatening murder almost immediately. Of course, they had texted across the weekend, offering words of support but not interfering; it appears that even they have now reached their breaking point. Alex spent the best part of an hour trying to explain everything to them, pointedly ignoring all of the bits about Valentino’s interactions (he doesn’t want his mum to actually end up in jail). In the end, they agreed that a week alone to decompress would be good for Marc (they pointedly didn’t tell him this - he wouldn’t like it).

At the end of the day, Alex can tell that Marc is still somewhat worried about the potential fallout of this weekend. He has been trying to put on a brave face, pretending it doesn’t bother him, but Alex knows better. On Tuesday, Marc spends all day in meetings with his management team and sponsors, trying to decipher the next steps. He looks much more relaxed when he emerges from their office later that evening. According to Marc, the sponsors were shocked but reacted optimistically, meaning that they weren’t considering dropping him. Instead, they released a handful of supportive messages online, so now any respectable media channel will have to put a more positive spin on Marc’s history or face backlash.

Despite this good news, Marc is still withdrawn over dinner, pushing his food around his plate and deep in thought. It confirms to Alex that this isn’t a ‘the whole world knows’ freak out and definitely has to do with Valentino. He has a sneaking suspicion that there is something Marc isn’t telling him, something happened on Sunday or Monday which has spun his brother into a tizzy. But no matter how hard he tries to get it out of Marc, he remains tight-lipped, refusing to admit anything is wrong. He mumbles an excuse about being stressed for an interview and hastily retreats to his bedroom.

The following morning, Marc wanders into the kitchen with a crease in his brow. Alex is already sitting at the bar, a mug and a half-empty plate in front of him. There are still eggs in the pan and bread in the toaster. Marc pours himself an espresso and makes his breakfast, thanking Alex for his courtesy.

“All the journalists involved have lost their jobs” Marc mutters, unprompted in the silence.

Alex raises a curious eyebrow, “That’s great! Why do you look so upset?” he enquires

“People online are saying it was Vale, apparently he’s been threatening everyone who had anything to do with it,” Marc grumbles.

Alex politely chooses not to berate his brother for looking online again, they both agreed not to do that until it calmed down. Instead, he focuses on the remark and has to stifle a laugh. Marc frowns at him.

“Sorry, sorry, it’s just very Valentino, isn’t it?” Alex giggles.

Marc quirks an eyebrow, scowling at his brother’s clear amusement.

“Well, you know, not actually talking to you, just going and firing everyone, ruining their lives. It really is going big or going home while ignoring the actual issue for him.” Alex explains, chuckling at Marc’s confusion.

Obviously Marc hasn’t worked out how fond Vale is of him yet. It is clear to Alex that Marc does not trust the older man, and he isn’t surprised in the slightest. Valentino had all but destroyed Marc’s life and revelled in it. It must be incredibly confusing to face the truth that the man you love has done his all to ruin you for a decade, only to change his mind out of the blue. . Alex kind of hates him for it, but he’s willing to compromise for Marc. In his defence, Valentino is now trying desperately hard to get Marc back (albeit in an odd way), but it doesn’t change the fact that Alex will be dishing out the shovel talk the second he gets the chance; there is no way he’s letting Vale hurt his brother again.

Valentino has got to be the craziest man Alex has ever met; he supposes that is why they work so well as a couple – him and Marc. The whole dramatic song and dance they are doing rather than just talking- it is very them. He just hopes they work it out soon.

But by Friday Alex has enough, 5 days of being sad is entirely too long. They have another race weekend soon and he doesn’t want Marc to still be like this – sad and withdrawn. It is not conducive to healing, let alone riding. Since their workout this morning, Marc has locked himself in his bedroom, and Alex knows he won’t come out until he goes for a run later, at 4 pm like clockwork. Alex is seriously considering just calling Valentino to sort his shit out, so when he gets a text from Franky, he almost cries in relief.

................

How are you doing? How’s Marc?

Marc hasn’t left his room in 3 hours – I’m beginning to worry.

He sounds like Vale; he can’t decide what he wants to do – it’s driving Luca insane.

Never met two more incapable adults.

Lol.

I don’t think I will ever understand. He was not very good when Pecco came. The house was a mess and all. He’s a bit better now but is fretting a lot (about everyone). It would be sweet but cazzo it’s so annoying.

I can’t imagine that. Don’t remember a time when Vale didn’t hate us.

Yh sorry about that. I'm not sure any of us have been too kind.

It's fine, past is the past. Not too chuffed with Rossi though.

I think I have a plan, actually about Marc and Valentino.

They spend the rest of the day plotting.

*

Marc is moping, he doesn’t like to admit it, but he is definitely moping. He has spent the week alternating between being in bed, crying, and training until he is sweating and his muscles protest. He knows that Alex thinks there’s an easy solution to this – either talk to Vale and somehow sort out a decade of resentment and pain, or forget about him, screw someone else and move on. Regrettably for Marc, it isn’t that simple.  He’s scared of letting Valentino in, but he wants so badly. He wants a relationship, not just a couple of nights but the softness and romance he knows would make him happy. Unfortunately, life is not a fairy tale, and Marc isn’t sure he will ever get his happy ending.

During the worst moments, he spends hours on end stuck alone with his thoughts. He should never have kissed Valentino on Monday – he doesn’t know what he was thinking. He had thought he read something in Vale’s face, a desire for him.

But then he woke up to reality.

Valentino and him were something different, almost alien in the way they fluttered between friends, lovers, and enemies. When he was younger and naive, he thought Valentino was the one for him. But then everything had come crashing down in quite a spectacular fashion. This weekend, for the first time in a decade, they had spoken words that weren’t venomous disputes, cruelty on podcasts or carefully painted indifference.

For a split second, it was heaven, their lips meeting felt like the most painful redemption. Marc had fallen into it head first, as he always does with Valentino; it was only when they had separated to gasp for air that Marc came to his senses. Vale wanted more, he always wanted more, and Marc so desperately wanted to let himself be pulled in, but it all crumbled around him; the realisation that they wanted different things punching him in the gut. Marc wanted, no, wants, love - not just a quick fuck. Although Vale claims to love him, Marc isn’t so sure. There is no trust in their relationship because what was once there is in shattered pieces on the ground, smashed during their decade-long feud. He isn’t sure they will ever manage to gather them all and rearrange them into a semblance of a soft, functioning, loving relationship.

Maybe they were never meant to have it, destined to be rivals and only have the distant echoes of love. Every time he reaches out for the whisps of tenderness they slip through his fingers.

Marc can’t do it again - put himself into the firing line and let Valentino shoot. In the motorhome, he tried to be the adult, to claw himself away, set some distance so they could communicate, but like always they imploded. It turned into another vicious argument and it had all gone terribly wrong. The first spark had lit the fuse many years ago and set the ticking in motion.

The countdown rules Marc’s life.

In the aftermath, Marc took one look at the devastation that was their relationship, aching with the harsh reality of their admissions, and he fled like a coward. He abandoned their sinking ship once more, unwilling to drown for the man who had already done this once before. Fate was a cruel thing, pulling them together, only for every interaction to be a direct collision – inescapable and destructive, like two cars meeting head-on. A tiny part of him wishes that he had never met Vale, he hates it. There is a deep ache within him, a cavernous hollow which cannot be filled. No matter how many people he fucks, how much he begs, how much he tries to plug it with something, anything. There is a Valentino-sized hole in his heart, his bones, his soul.

It is incurable. It is inevitable, terminal.

When Marc isn’t stewing over the way it went with Valentino – he throws himself into work. He asks Carlos for extra workouts and ignores the frowns he receives from both him and Alex. He swims, cycles, runs, and lifts weights until he can barely move after, and then he does it all again the next day. He calls his team, spending hours locked in the office in meeting after meeting with sponsors and managers. Marc is desperately trying to find out if he can turn the weekend into a positive. He’s suddenly realised that he doesn’t want to hide from this anymore nor pretend it never happened. He refuses to brush it under the rug. Although Marc hates vulnerability, feeling like people are stripping him bare and reading his darkest thoughts, it is easier, somehow, to address the past when it is so far away. He knows he is only human (sometimes he wishes he was not). People knowing his past is less of a concern, he is no longer that vulnerable, and they cannot use it against him. It makes it bearable.

As it turns out, there is little to do when your life has been turned upside down and you are trying to avoid the world. Marc spends a lot of time re-watching old races or training, determined to do well this weekend. To prove that this hasn’t beaten him down. He pointedly avoids Alex, knowing what his brother thinks. Although he had been trying to avoid social media, Marc sees the news online- it is inevitable really. Valentino has been spinning his web again, pulling strings taut until he gets what he wants. It appears that currently, that is revenge. According to the internet, everyone hinted to be involved with the whole scandal has been suddenly fired and struck off, and Valentino isn’t being subtle that it is his hand striking the blows. Marc feels inexplicably angry about it. How dare Vale suddenly pretend to care now when he was nowhere back then? There is also the simmering of embarrassment underlying the anger. Marc does not need some knight in shining armour – he is fine on his own. A childish voice tells him to call every agency and have their jobs reinstated. He doesn’t. It will not diminish his irritation that Valentino thinks he cannot handle this. As it turns out, Alex does not share his rage. Marc does not understand his brother’s rambling explanation and settles to be confused. He ignores the amused smirk Alex is wearing, lest he does something stupid like kick him.

To give his brother some credit, it was Alex’s idea to turn his mental health experience into an educational tool, reminding people that they are not alone. Make what could be a huge weakness into a strength. Throwing people off immediately makes it impossible for them to stab him in the back. When he brings it up to his manager, it is met with unrivalled positivity and before he knows it, they are in contact with mental health charities and vocal experts. An interview is set up with a journalist he likes, someone trustworthy. It's booked last minute so it can air right before Aragon. It is hoped that being outspoken about mental health will not only smooth over any concerns but also gain him some support. It has the added bonus that anyone who feels like being an asshole will gain sufficient backlash. Marc feels honoured to be involved with something so significant but would be lying if he said that he wasn’t terrified about it. Nevertheless, if there’s one thing he’s learnt in life, it’s that the scariest things come with the biggest rewards. The most nail-biting corners, when he can feel the bike start to slip, are the ones where he claws back a win. The biggest leaps of faith can become the most successful.

A day before he’s due to head into Madrid for the interview, whilst he’s knee-deep in packing (trying to decide which outfit would be best), his phone bleeps. His notifications have been blowing up since last weekend, mainly from the number of posts he has been tagged in on social media. He has deleted a bunch of apps and turned off alerts on all the others, determined not to sink into narratives other people are writing about him. Apart from that, friends and family have been checking in across the week. He is slightly embarrassed to admit that half of them go unanswered, only his immediate family and the people at Misano got a response.

He half-heartedly checks his phone, assuming it’s his mum offering to come again, or maybe a friend. Marc isn’t expecting it to be Pecco; he drops his phone in shock. His life has become categorically odd in the past few weeks, especially after this weekend. The academy boys are talking to him now – not that he ever had many issues with Luca or Franky. But Bez and Pecco have always been wary of Marc, particularly since Pecco had been there when it all fell to pieces the first time. Since Ducati had expressed interest, the younger man had been more pleasant and had somehow managed to secure his number from someone; he still doesn’t know who (there are not too many people in the paddock with his number). When the news was released over the summer break, Pecco was one of the first to congratulate him.

His phone beeps again.

Hi Marc, hope you’re ok. You might find this interesting.

The second message contains a link to something on YouTube. He spares a quick thought for just how strange this is before curiosity gets the better of him and he clicks the link.

A YouTube video loads. At first, Marc is confused, then shock paralyses him and he is unable to prevent the video from playing. Eventually, ten seconds in, he pauses it and settles in disbelief. He can’t believe Pecco would do this, send him that God-awful video again, the one with Mig where Vale is just sending punch after punch in Marc’s direction. He flicks his eyes to the stats, surprised that there are so few views, he thought the video had been popular.

He double-checks the link, definitely to the correct video. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the upload date. Today. But that’s not right, this came out a while ago. He notices then, he thinks they were wearing something different from the clips he had seen last time. It hits him in a rush, sucking the air out of his lungs. It looks like he’s not the only one who’s been busy. Valentino appears to have done a second podcast with Mig. Marc’s heart hammers, feeling slightly sick at the thought of what the older man might say about him this time.

To Marc’s surprise, he isn’t mentioned at all in the first 20 minutes, Valentino talking instead about the academy and next year’s prospects. He has to admit that it is rather sweet, how much Vale cares about his boys and his excitement about the youngest ones he is coaching, still in the lower leagues. It reminds him of Vale’s humanity, and how much he attends to the things he is passionate about. There is a soft smile growing on Marc’s face.

When the conversation turns to Pecco, it naturally flows into Ducati and their prospects next year. That means that Marc is the obvious next topic. He feels frozen when Mig asks, his mind overwhelmed by thoughts of what he might say, what insults he could procure. It is not exactly like Marc has been kind to Valentino recently, pushing him away at every attempt. Maybe Valentino has realised that Marc isn’t worth it, and this is his revenge. Marc can’t breathe. When Valentino opens his mouth, he squeezes his eyes shut. But then, Valentino begins wax poetry about Marc, praising his impressive comeback and determination. Marc is so shocked that he doesn’t even register the way Mig smiles, looking pleased.

He blinks.

Another text comes through, the notification covering the top of the screen. He doesn’t know this number but it has an Italian call code. His heart thumps. He scans the message, once, twice, three times, his hands shaking. The words blur in front of his eyes and his pulse is thundering.

“Sorry, I didn't have a chance to forewarn you.” The message reads. It can only be from one person. Marc thinks his jaw has hit the floor. It has to be a joke, surely? He doesn’t know where he stands with Valentino now, especially with the older man suddenly switching up his entire judgement of Marc. To go from hatred to love in a weekend feels so incredibly unrealistic that Marc is finding himself second-guessing everything. And now this. He no longer knows what to think, or what to trust. His heart and his brain are at war and within himself he feels a deep sense of conflict. He wants to believe that Valentino loves him, to fulfil his heart's wishes, but his brain is holding him back. Marc doesn’t reply, letting the screen turn black as he stares. The message sits unopened as he turns off his phone.

Chapter Text

A week later, they’re in Aragon. It’s been two weeks since Marc’s world fell to pieces at his feet; it feels like he’s still trying to piece it back together. He holds his head high as he enters the paddock. It is nice to be back in familiar territory, where the fans paint the stands red and Marc’s number is plastered everywhere. But there’s an uncomfortable awkwardness in the air like people don’t know how to act around him. Only the crew members and staff mill around the track on Thursdays. The fans will not be here until tomorrow; Marc wonders how they will react this weekend, especially considering the crowd tends to favour him more in Aragon compared to Misano.

Thankfully, his team welcomed him with open arms, instantly pulling him into rapid conversations about the break and race conditions for this weekend. It eases the tension Marc has subconsciously been holding.

Media day goes better than Marc expects. He strongly suspects someone has ordered the journalists to behave this weekend. He feels thankful; he isn’t sure he could do another weekend of strangers digging up his past. When the press conference ends without a hitch, Marc breathes a sigh of relief and has to restrain himself from bolting out the door. He wanders back to his motorhome alone, glad to be released from duties. He is tired and on edge. It feels like the ghost of the last weekend is haunting him as he walks through the paddock, echoing off the walls.

Thursdays are slower days at the track, time to settle in and make any last-minute changes. Marc tries to shake out of his weird headspace as he walks, reminders of the last race threatening to pull him under. His brain keeps jumping back to memories of the fans, of Valentino, and then he ends up down a rabbit hole of their kiss and fights, and the stupid podcast which he has watched at least 5 too many times.

Marc thinks Valentino is somewhere around, probably in the VR46 garage. He can’t remember if the other man usually comes to Aragon. He doesn’t think so. Marc wonders whether this was a deliberate move from Valentino, after Misano, or if it is just a coincidence. Things are starting to add up in his head, he just prays that he’s doing the right sums. He hopes Vale will be willing to talk soon – but he has hoped for decades to no avail.

He doesn’t notice the curious eyes following him as he makes his way down the pit lane.

The walk is quick, and he doesn’t waste any time once he reaches his motorhome. If he uses the track walk as a warm-up, he can probably do a decent run before he calls it a day. It will help him to clear his head too. He shrugs off his team polo and shorts, changing into athletic gear before heading back out. It will drive him insane if he sits down too much this weekend, getting lost in his thoughts. So, he ambles back to the garage, nodding at Fabio as he passes in the opposite direction.

Frankie is waiting for him on the garage’s threshold, calling over his shoulder to someone Marc can’t see. The other man smiles kindly when he notices Marc’s approach. He can’t help but smile back – he doesn’t think he would have managed last weekend without the constant reassuring atmosphere in the Gresini garage. His team have always been his grounding within the paddock, and he is thankful that he has managed to make a home within Gresini like the one he had at Honda. He hopes he will settle as well in Ducati.

They chat idly for a few minutes; Marc being pulled into their conversation about who would be the best rider out of the mechanics. It leaves him almost bent in half cackling as they debate why they would be better than each other – often for the most ridiculous reasons.

(They never agree on an answer)

(Marc doesn’t think he trusts any of them on the bike after that)

It makes Marc feel lighter, being surrounded by people who aren’t giving him looks or tiptoeing around him. It’s exactly what he needs, to be back here, to normality. The race track has always been a safe space for him (until Valentino ripped it away). He had just rebuilt his safety and confidence at the track when Jerez happened, sending him straight back to square one, and putting him in a hospital room for far too long. It happened again last weekend in Misano, the comfort in his home away from home being shattered before his eyes.

Sepang 2015

Jerez 2020

Misano 2024

He thinks that he either has terrible luck, or someone is out to get him. Either way, the past has shown him that he is nothing if not resilient – he can recover from this too.

A hand claps onto his shoulder and breaks him from his thoughts. He spins around on the spot, his lips quirking at Frankie’s gentle nudge. Once Marc nods, confirming that he is okay, the other man tilts his head towards the open garage door. Alex is in some last-minute meeting with his engineers and had waved him off earlier, suggesting they catch up later instead. They head out for the track walk in silence, Frankie close enough to bring comfort without feeling suffocating.

Up ahead, two figures are strolling out of the Ducati garage. Marc’s stomach sinks.  

Bez and Pecco.

The two Italians are deep in conversation, seemingly unaware of their surroundings or the fact that they are only 10 feet in front of Marc. From this distance, they look young, almost childlike in the way they grabble with each other and tease in lilting Italian. Marc reckons that Bezzecchi acts much like the younger brother of the group, but he hasn’t had enough experience to confirm it.

A smile creeps onto his face as Pecco swipes at the younger man, clearly wound up by whatever he’s saying. Bez spins away from him, grinning from ear to ear. His eyes catch Marc’s. His smile dims slightly and an unreadable expression clouds his features. Marc stumbles slightly as Bez turns back towards Pecco, mumbling something under his breath. Pecco glances back over his shoulder but Marc looks away first. They aren’t being subtle.

Marc covers his shock with a gasping cough when Bez stops, making eye contact with him and pulling Pecco aside- waiting. A part of him wants to turn and flee, only Frankie cautiously walking by his side keeps him going. He tilts his chin up despite the tension stiffening his frame, reminding himself that this might be a trap.

“How are you doing, Marc? " Pecco asks kindly once he is close enough. There is no insincerity in his voice, although Marc supposes that the academy boys usually don’t go out of their way to disguise their dislike.

Marc tries to rearrange his face into a smile and only partially succeeds, probably looking more like a grimace. Shaking off the residual awkwardness is proving difficult.

“Okay, thank you. I'm glad to be back in Spain. I'm looking forward to a friendlier reception,” he replies, grinning sharply as he reflects upon Italy. Interestingly, Bez’s face dims slightly while Pecco rolls his eyes.

“I think you did okay last race. I’m sure they will come around. How are you feeling about this track?” Pecco probes, shifting the conversation to something easier. The strain relaxes minutely.

From there, they fall into a rapid conversation about the race, this track, and the rest of the calendar. Bezzecchi chips in sporadically but spends most of his time analysing Marc as if trying to figure him out.

Frankie is nudging into his side as they walk the track, with Bez and Pecco’s teams also joining them. It’s odd, to be in such proximity to the others – he knows anyone watching will be instantly confused. He supposes that Pecco and him could be attributed to future teammate bonding. But Marc and Bez have never had much of a friendly relationship, it’s slightly earth-shattering.

They continue to amble around the track together, settling into an almost comfortable companionship. As they walk, Pecco tells Marc about their latest training story, which ended up with Bez, Luca, and Cele in a pile on the floor. Surprisingly, Marc finds himself laughing along with Bez and Pecco’s squabbling over which parts are true and which aren’t. He can almost imagine it, Bez pouting at the others in the way he is now, Luca trying to maintain diplomacy as Cele lies in the dirt. Marc barely notices the cameras on them and it seems like the others don’t either.

By the time they’ve looped the track, Marc is almost sad. It’s the most confusing feeling in the face of the situation. He never thought a time would come when he would be disappointed to be leaving their company. When they are alone again, the Italians calling goodbyes over their shoulders, Frankie tugs on Marc’s arm.

“What the fuck was that?” he asks, in utter disbelief, looking hysterically between the boys and Marc. It is such an accurate representation of how weird all of this is that he can’t help but bark out a laugh. He grins and shrugs back at Frankie. He has no clue whatsoever about what is going on, or why, but he can’t take the smile off his face for the rest of the day. If he was not so relieved, he would think it’s rather pathetic.

They duck into the garage together, Frankie pulling him into a quick goodbye bro hug before he treks off to do some actual work. Alex’s meeting is finished, by the looks of things. So, Marc makes it his mission to annoy his brother instead. He sits in the chair near his brother, spinning around in circles waiting for Alex to give him some attention. Eventually, he gets bored of that and starts aimlessly tapping on the desk, until Alex snaps and tells Marc that he will join the run.

Alex elbows him in the side as they set off, winding their way to the first turn from the pit lane.

“Why do you look like someone has done something wonderful?” he asks.

Marc’s smile only widens, chuckling at his brother’s dramatics. “Am I not allowed to be happy? That’s mean Alex”.

Alex scoffs, pushing his brother harder off the track and laughing when Marc actually stumbles this time. Underneath it all, he is happy for his brother, and he isn’t stupid, he knows that Marc has spent some time with Pecco and Bez this morning, he would be hard-pressed to have missed it with the way most people have been talking. After years of isolation, it is nice to see his older brother being accepted into the wider community again. He did not expect it to be caused by such dramatics, but he supposes at least there have been some positives. He is fonder now of Bagnaia, but the jury is still out on Bezzecchi – the younger man is too worshipping of Valentino to be trustworthy. But he keeps an open mind, it is not like all of them are bad. Franky, as it turns out, is wonderful, and Luca is a good guy. Alex doesn’t know the others too well but is willing to give it a shot if they are good to Marc.

Alex doesn’t think that Marc has noticed the way Rossi’s eyes are tracing them around the track. The old man thinks he is being subtle, talking to various people in the garage threshold coincidentally as the brothers are running down the pit straight. He rolls his eyes. At the very least, his and Franky’s plan has worked, and with their combined knowledge of Marc and Valentino, it was bound to do something, even if Marc hasn’t said much about Vale since last weekend. Alex won’t bring it up. It isn’t worth disturbing the peace.

They settle for one lap because even according to Marc, 5k is enough on a race weekend. When they loop back into the pits, Vale is still there, pretending to not look. Marc isn’t stupid, he knows that the older man is looking, but he also knows Valentino well enough to understand that he won’t speak.

When he catches Valentino's eyes, tipping his head minutely in greeting, he sees a gauntness in Vales's face. His eyes look red-rimmed, the bags underneath purple. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a month. Worry sweeps through Marc as he wonders what’s happened to make Valentino look like that. It's only when Alex tugs on his arm that Marc realises, he’s stopped still in the middle of the pits, Valentino and him standing and staring at each other.

He flushes, his embarrassment prominent, and allows Alex to lead him into the garage. He doesn’t catch Valentino's creased eyebrows and downturned lips.  

The rest of the day blurs slightly, thoughts of Vale consuming him. The media team make Alex and him do some silly video and they’re happy to oblige. Afterwards, he takes a call from a sponsor to discuss new brand deals. He’s swept along in a tide of things to do and places to be so by the time he’s done for the day he hardly remembers what happened earlier.

Alex and him grab food and eat in the comfort of the motorhome. Marc hasn’t felt much like facing the world recently. They’re halfway through their paella when Alex pushes his phone under Marc’s nose, a grin on his face. Marc takes it. On the screen Instagram is open, and the MotoGP account has posted a video. It’s Marc, Bez, and Pecco, laughing loudly at whatever had been said. Their happiness is clear in the video and as they walk, you can see Marc and Pecco's shoulders brushing.

Marc looks up, his brother's pleased face greeting him. He rolls his eyes, laughing to himself.

“Yes, yes. I know. They accosted me to a track walk; they are nicer than I realised” Marc laments. It makes Alex huff, rolling his eyes.

“Look at the comments” he requests, making Marc mutter “please” under his breath in admonishment. Alex looks at the heavens again but the way his lips tick up betrays him.

The comments range from pure disbelief to rage to happiness. Half of the fans make jokes about divorced kids and their mandated time with each parent. Marc has to admit it’s kind of funny, given at least Pecco was around when Marc and Vale fell out. A few of the comments are outraged that Pecco would associate himself with Marc, he doesn’t think those fans are going to survive next year.

As it turns out from further investigation. Social media has exploded, it has Marc giggling as he reads the posts from the fans. It is nice not to be hated for once. Of course, there are still the occasional negative comments but they seem to be fewer and farther between. He stumbles across a couple which makes him and Alex laugh so hard that they can barely breathe after. It’s refreshing, after so many years of tension.

He goes to sleep that night with hope singing in his heart.

*

The weekend could be a strong one for the team, especially at this track, he can feel it in his bones. But Marc never truly knows if the 2023 Gresini Ducati could throw up a curveball. It’s not a new model, so the other Ducati teams will always have the edge. He has the advantage of home turf but the challenge of last weekend hanging over him.

He doesn’t let it impede his confidence too much, determined to push the most out of the bike during practice.

And he does, topping the time sheets in a display of dominance that he didn’t think was possible this year. It settles somewhere in his chest, glowing warmly as he pulls the bike to a stop.

 Both of his parents are already waiting for him with open arms. They had arrived this morning, his mother fussing slightly over him and Alex before teaming up with Nadia to become matriarchs for the weekend. They have managed to hold back the fretting for the time being, but he can see the concern in his mum’s eyes when she hugs him, pressing her lips to the crown of his head.

 Since they arrived, Marc has felt a strange dichotomy of rising anxiety and a settling comfort in his parent's presence. There’s an odd sense of foreboding about his parents being here, the way they feel the need to protect him. He had to tell his mum quite firmly that he couldn’t skip media yesterday. Marc has a sneaking suspicion that she’s been staring down any journalist within a foot of him - God forbid if Valentino attempts anything.

Alas, they are determined to be here the whole weekend. And as his parents pull him into their arms, he feels endlessly grateful. Through it all his family have been a constant – with him even in his worst moments. He and Alex are lucky, he thinks. Some others do not have the blessings which they do. Another pair of arms join the hug – Alex. When he pulls away, his baby brother is beaming at him. Marc smiles back, bathing in his family’s affection for some time longer.

Soon enough, Marc is dragged away to debrief with the team, happy to talk through the ways they could improve to drag the milliseconds out of every corner and achieve the blistering speed they need down the straights. The team are in good spirits, Alex has put in some quick laps too, meaning that both bikes are in the top 5. Marc knows the energy tomorrow will be electric. There’s a lot of potential.

Debrief is blissfully short, giving them both plenty of time to spend with their family in the evening. By the time they have finished in the garage and are wandering back to the motorhome, their parents have somehow made all the dinner plans at some place close to their hotel. Although this is considered a ‘local’ race for them, the drive is still over two hours. And the motorhome doesn’t quite fit 4 adults in it.

As he and Alex are cleaning up and getting ready, Marc is beginning to feel nervous about the interview release. Without the distraction of practice and racing, there are a thousand questions and worries floating around his head- what if he said too much? What if people think he’s weak or attention-seeking?

The thoughts keep rising over dinner, like an inevitable and colossal tidal wave. Marc knows he’s being quieter than usual, choked by fear. His family notices, trying all they can to distract him. They won’t let him sit out of any conversations, even when he only gives one-word answers. Alex keeps his arm resting next to Marc throughout the whole meal.

Marc refrains from checking his phone, or more Alex steals it from his pocket and turns it off. Once they’re outside of the restaurant, Alex returns it and Marc turns it on with no small amount of trepidation.

It instantly floods with messages. He trails his eyes across the notifications, reading word after word of positivity. There is an overwhelming number of supportive messages from friends and colleagues alike. A quick look online suggests that the reaction from the fans is overwhelmingly positive too, which is a relief.

Marc has to admit that they did a fantastic job with it, the editing and production of the video tiptoes the fine line between professional and personable. It feels good to have it out in the open, knowing there isn’t some big secret hanging over him. Being able to tell the story from his own narrative and not someone else’s lies feels like a weight lifted.

There are plans for him to team up with some mental health charities, and maybe even become an ambassador. Marc needs to make something good of this. The team was a little reluctant at first but Marc insisted. If everyone has to know his story, then he wants it to be one of positivity and recovery. It isn’t often that he gets the choice to be a part of things that truly matter to him, so he isn’t letting this one go.

It was a good choice. He’s proud of himself and his family all pull him into tight hugs and whisper that they are too. He ignores the rude comments, the ignorance, and the blind hatred and sinks into his parents’ arms like he is a child once more.

At that moment, somewhere in the north of Spain, on a warm summer night with the stars coming out above him. Marc Marquez forgives himself for all that he has done, he lets go of his past and pledges to keep pushing forward, no matter what.

Chapter Text

Saturday brings bright blue skies and glorious sunshine. Marc wakes up with a smile already playing on his lips and a self-assurance that has been missing for quite some time. It feels like something has shifted, recently. He joined Ducati to enjoy racing and to win, and that is what he’s done. Yes, he misses Honda, but it feels like the clouds have finally lifted after months, years, of darkness.

Marc hums under his breath as he completes his usual morning routine, already in a good mood. There were rain showers overnight, forming small puddles on the ground which reflects the bright morning light. The sun filters through the motorhome windows, already warming the air. A new dawn has broken.

He changes into his team polo and shorts, grabs his pass, and heads out into the paddock, strolling towards hospitality. As he leaves, he hears Alex padding around his room, meaning he will have company at breakfast.

 As Marc walks, he allows himself to think. The weekend is progressing rapidly and it is becoming increasingly apparent that Valentino is ignoring him. He has tried not to become too wrapped up in the thought, but Marc doesn’t understand why and is becoming more frustrated by the hour. It is even more irritating because it’s not as though Vale completely disregards his presence; instead, he praises Marc to any journalist who will listen, commenting on his speed and skill as if perfectly normal. But then, whenever they stumble across each other in the paddock, Valentino will blink at him owlishly before hightailing it away from Marc, leaving him frozen to the spot and confused.

Yesterday, Marc was walking back to the garages with Bez and Luca (if you had told him that 3 weeks ago, he would have laughed in your face). Valentino stood on the threshold of the VR46 garage, talking to a mechanic. As if sensing their presence, Vale’s eyes shot towards Marc and time froze for a beat, before Valentino promptly rushed inside, almost colliding with a mechanic who spun away in shock. Bez stared, wide-eyed, at his mentor’s retreating form; Luca only swore and muttered grumpily under his breath. Marc frowned at the bizarre behaviour, wondering if maybe they had caught him at a bad time. Luca didn’t mention it as they walked back to the Honda garage, so Marc didn’t either.  Marc hadn’t thought too much about it until later when he identified the pattern of avoidance.  

To make matters worse, Valentino keeps staring, his eyes glued to Marc whenever they’re within each other’s vicinity. It’s not even subtle. There is an odd tension between them, a reluctance to break the fragile barrier which separates them, even as they observe each other through it. The irony is that it is of their own making.

People are noticing now too, going crazy with it online. Marc really wishes that he would stop breaking the internet. Between Vale’s odd behaviour, fixation, and the academy boys, it’s obvious to anyone watching that things have changed. The theories are slightly wild, ranging from interesting to down-right absurd. Alex takes great delight in showing Marc every video and fan theory. Marc is just trying to survive.

It plays on his mind all morning, through breakfast, set up, and practice. Thankfully, he becomes somewhat distracted from the whole issue (now mentally dubbed as the ‘Valentino problem’) by Dovi, who turns up, as promised, after FP2 on Saturday morning. His presence in the garage is a shock at first since he is a day early, but Marc quickly settles into the familiarity of the older man’s presence. He is so wrapped up in entertaining Dovi that he misses how Valentino’s longing stares turn into envious glares.

Marc lets the other man hang around in the garage and sweet-talk his parents (Alex rolls his eyes, hard). Marc continues to prepare around them, feeling the way Dovi’s eyes track him across the space. It has not gone unnoticed, the ex-rider’s presence in their garage. He has noticed the looks from Alex, and the raised eyebrows from team members and other riders as they pass by. Marc wonders what people will say as he tugs on his leathers and grabs his helmet. Dovi is right there handing him his gloves with a smile and a pat on the shoulder. His hand is warm. Marc finds himself not caring about anyone else’s thoughts on the matter.

The morning is going well, he topped the timesheet across the practice session. He knows what people are saying now, the big words and unconcealed anticipation.

A dominating weekend.

A step above the rest

He is flying, at one with the bike.

It’s only reaffirmed when he hops off the bike after qualifying, beaming from ear to ear. Nothing beats the feeling of soaring through laps on a bike which is behaving. He snags a track record while he’s at it. 0.8 seconds clear of the next person. It’s elation and vindication all in one.

Marc has dominated the weekend so far and now he’s qualified in pole to seal the deal. People are talking, but this weekend, it’s not about his past, or his stupid fucking medical records. Instead, they say he is back, Marc Marquez is on top form once again. An echo of Marc from before, of Honda Marc, of Marc in 2013, 14, hell even 19.

The smile he wears is vicious, self-satisfied and as he settles into the feeling of pole he thinks to himself.

No. This is Marc of 2024 and he will be one to remember.

*

The Afternoon rolls around quickly, between watching the feeder series and preparing.

Marc enters the sprint race feeling confident in a way that he hasn’t felt in years. He can practically taste a victory. He doesn’t look at anyone else on the grid, head down as he strides to his bike. He locks in and focuses on the finish line.

Corner after corner he bolts around the track, barely placing a foot wrong. He feels in tune with the bike, melding into one. He tucks himself as close as he can into the unforgiving machine on the straights and tips onto the corners as much as he dares.

 No one can get close, he is practically untouchable.

He flies through the final few turns to the roar of the crowd. And he thinks that there’s nothing quite like home.

He wins, of course. Jorge pulls up next to him, a congratulating touch before he drives into the distance. Alex flies over the line in fourth. When he reaches Marc, he tugs him closer, slapping his back and grinning wildly underneath his visor.

Three years and then two wins in as many weeks. After everyone who doubted him, he still rises. He holds onto that knowledge as he celebrates.

Pecco pulls himself inside after the podium, clapping their hands together and pulling Marc into a half hug. That alone is shocking enough, the embrace of a friend, rather than a forced acquaintance or a colleague. As Pecco leans into it, he mutters into Marc’s ear.
“Will you talk to Vale? Please?”

“What”, Marc replies, his brow furrowed as he pulls back from the hug.

“Marc, please. He’s worrying me sick. You should have seen him last week. He was like an empty shell. He would kill me if he knew that I told you. But he wasn’t eating, or sleeping, or anything.”, Pecco rushes, not giving Marc time to reply.

“I don’t know why he won't talk to you. I think has convinced himself that you don’t want him or that he isn’t worth it. I don’t know. I really don’t understand his mind but please just give him a chance. We miss Vale. You both deserve to be happy,” he continues to grovel.

“He was probably upset about something else. Or embarrassed. How do you know this is even about me?”.

“Oh come on, surely you’ve noticed Marc. It’s like he’s an empty shell without you, especially now. Just talk to him, please?”

Marc sighs.

"I’ll think about it”.

*

The garage is already alive with celebration as Marc approaches. He knows it will not be too wild, that is saved for tomorrow, but with both bikes in the top 5, it calls for at least a small party. The crew are delighted, all too happy to pull Marc into hugs and slap him on the back. Marc melts into it every time, winning and making him soft.

Alex is there, as are his parents. He relaxes in their presence; and lets his walls fall around his team and his family. Dovi wraps his arms around Marc and cheers into his ear when the team announce his success. Warmth blooms inside of him. Followed instantly by guilt when he remembers Valentino. He disentangles himself from Dovi.

They don’t celebrate for too long, exhaustion from the long day catching up with them and the promise of another long one tomorrow hanging ahead. He thanks his team and says his goodbyes, pressing close to Frankie when they embrace.

He’s thinking about Valentino again. How to confront him so they can finally talk, or at least Valentino can meet his eyes. Ironically, Marc’s on the way back to his motorhome when he almost walks straight into someone. He lifts his head to apologise only to come face to face with a shocked-looking Valentino.

Well, it’s certainly one way to confront the person who’s been ignoring you.

Their position is startlingly similar to two weeks ago when Vale had grabbed him in between two buildings and spat poison. Marc shivers. Suddenly he is ice-cold. Sometimes he thinks he is over it but is always plunged into the memories of the hurt Valentino has caused.

This isn’t exactly what he’d imagined when he thought about talking.

Marc takes him in. He doesn’t look much better than yesterday, his eyes sunken and flitting around as if unsure where to look. He holds himself with a nervous tension that Marc doesn’t recognise. He frowns.

“Valentino-”

The older man interrupts him, “It was a good race.”

Marc sighs.

“You are strong at this track” Valentino rambles, not giving Marc a chance to steer the conversation.

“Vale”, Marc tries, hating the way Valentino still pauses at the nickname, his eyes widening fractionally. But the older man still ploughs on in stuttered gasping sentences, broken off as if catching his breath.

“And I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry”

“Jesus Marc, I don’t know what’s wrong with me”

Valentino is properly babbling now, going off on a tangent about worth and purpose. He’s switched to rapid Italian, which makes it difficult to follow. Marc always thought his Italian was good but now he’d hear Valentino talk about not deserving him and suddenly he feels illiterate. Marc expects that at least one of them is losing it. He’s also not sure Vale has even noticed that he’s speaking a different language.

It’s odd, the nervous look in his eyes is uncannily like shame and the way they dart around, never settling on one thing like guilt. Valentino is breathing heavily in between sentences, stumbling over his words as they fall past his lips.

Not for the first time, Marc wonders what has happened in the past weeks for Valentino to be like this. He’s never seen in, not in the 12 years he’s known the man, nor the previous 15 years of idolising him. Marc wonders whether it is embarrassment after everything that happened- the drunk confessions and the kiss. But Valentino has never been a man of shame.

Valentino is still going on, something about losing Marc. It’s all incredibly depressing, Marc muses. He really should stop this before it gets worse.  

“Valentino, listen to me!” he interrupts, unable to prevent the frustration seeping into his words. Trust Vale to try to apologise and somehow ignore him again while doing it.

Valentino freezes.

Unlike two weeks ago, this time it is Vale who tries to flee the conversation, beginning to turn away from Marc. No doubt his words are beginning to catch up with him as he starts to swiftly walk away.

Marc doesn’t let him.

He grabs hold of Valentino’s wrist, wrapping his fingers around the protruding bone there, and yanks, spinning Vale around to face him.

Valentino may be taller, but Marc has always had muscle mass on his side.

“Jesus Vale, can we not just have a normal adult conversation about this?” He hisses.

Valentino doesn’t reply. Marc tips his head back to the open sky and briefly prays for strength. He doesn’t let go of Valentino, even though the contact burns.

“No apparently not” Marc seethes in response to Valentino’s silence.  

“Fine I’ll go first then, shall I? Since you are now apparently mute and we can't keep avoiding this conversation

What the hell is wrong with you? Normally you’d be ripping into me by now. Instead, you’re playing nice to the media and ignoring me? It’s like you can’t decide what you want to do. You tell me you love me and then give me the cold shoulder. I’m so confused. Even the boys are worried. This is stupid” he snaps at Valentino.

The other man stares, his face void of anger. It makes Marc stumble. He expected anger, there’s always something – cold malice, fury in his face when he looks at Marc or is spoken to like this.

“How did I not notice?” Valentino whispers

“What?” Marc asks in disbelief, turning around to check their surroundings and seeing nothing there. Maybe Valentino has actually finally lost it.

“How did I not notice it then? What I was doing? How you were feeling,” Vale mumbles almost as if talking to himself.

Marc laughs harshly, 

“What are you on about? Is old age finally catching up with you?”

Valentino doesn’t react. He normally reacts, shouting at Marc, spinning his words to the media. Being cruel.

“2015, how did I not know?”

It clicks for Marc then and disbelief fills him.

“That’s what this is about? Vale no one noticed. In case you missed it, I’m good at hiding this stuff.” He deadpans, still not understanding why they're having this conversation.

Marc doesn’t want to talk about it. Certainly not with a man who’s hated him for a decade, an ex-rival, ex-friend, ex-lover. Anyone but Valentino.

Even if they are beginning my make amends.

“But I should have – I didn’t-” Valentino stammers.

Marc scoffs.

“Valentino! Alex didn’t even know. My baby brothers. We’re inseparable and he didn’t even notice. You were never going to. And I didn’t need your help. I wasn’t some damsel for you to save” Marc barks, fed up with all of this. He’s embarrassed to be having this conversation; it’s not a nice thing to think about. It sets him on edge.

Maybe that’s what makes him go too far. Saying things that sting Valentino, making him flinch.

Marc presses on, “Is this what you’re upset about? Not noticing? Or have you finally got it through that thick head of yours that maybe you had a role to play? That for once you could admit your mistakes.”

Valentino swallows, once, twice and nods.

Marc has the unsettling realisation that Valentino has tears in his eyes, actual tears. Suddenly Pecco’s fears feel real. Valentino sitting at home, alone, stewing in guilt.

Marc’s anger deflates, it’s still there, sizzling in the background but no longer glowing red.

He looks away. It’s too weird. Like something ripped out of 23-year-old him and his dreams that Valentino would come to his senses. He feels flayed out and wounded. Unsure in that face of a Valentino who knows all of his secrets and still feels remorse.  

When Marc looks back up, Valentino’s smile is dimmed and watery.

“It’s only taken a decade, right?” Valentino chokes out, his self-deprecation is evident as he laughs bitterly, shaking his head.  

“Can you ever forgive me?” He asks, soft and unsure. Marc falls quiet. Takes one breath. Two. He is still mortified they are talking about this.

“You hurt me so much Vale, I need time, I need so much time to heal from this,” Marc admits, refusing to meet his eyes. Valentino reaches out a hand, cupping his face and lifting his chin. Marc goes without complaint, blinking up at Valentino.

“We will talk, yes?” Valentino whispers

Marc nods, now forced to make eye contact.  "Yes, we need to. We have a lot to catch up on." He sighs.

Valentino has such pretty eyes. He hates himself for thinking it. There’s always such a confusing mix of emotions dragged to the surface when he’s face to face with Vale.

Hurt, anger, frustration, fear, hope, love.

“What are you doing after this weekend?” Marc enquires.

“Well, I might celebrate when you win but after that not much” Valentino jokes. Marc blushes slightly at the compliment and nods at Vale.

He pointedly ignores the assumption.

“I am a forgiving person. Grudges hurt more and I have wanted this for too long not to try.” Marc confesses.

“And Dovi?”

Marc sighs, typical Valentino.

“You’ll have to get over that jealousy at some point. He’s a good friend” Marc chides, trying to soothe the sting of his open wound.

Valentino nods solemnly, knowing that is the best he will get and acknowledging that it wasn’t an answer.

He huffs and sticks out his hand,

“For old time's sake, friends?”

Valentino’s eyes are searching.

Marc laughs, bright and shocked. He takes Valentino’s palm in his own and shakes it.

 Valentino memorises the warmth of Marc's calloused palm and thinks that he never wants to lose this again.

Chapter Text

Marc doesn’t know how it happens, one moment he’s out of the shower, ready to settle down for the evening, glowing in the aftermath of another win and trying to ignore any thoughts of Valentino. The bitter sting from their confrontation earlier is still burning. He doesn’t know what to make of it- his head is still spinning, his heart smarting. Marc tries to take stock of the facts: he loves Valentino and wants to make up, but doesn’t want it to be a product of guilt rather than affection. He doesn’t want friendship alone. It hurts that only pity could bring about their reconciliation. He doesn’t want Valentino to see him so weak, lest he realise Marc isn’t the one he wants.

The next he knows; he is being dragged into the rapidly cooling night air by one of Valentino’s minions. Fucking typical. He cannot seem to escape the older man, no matter where he turns.

He stumbles next to Pecco, questioning why the fuck he has been taken from the warmth of his motorhome and whether he is about to be murdered.

(Unlikely, but never impossible)

To his surprise, Pecco pulls him to what looks like Valentino’s motorhome, which is a bad idea. Marc tries to pull away, but Pecco keeps his grip tight on Marc’s arm and a second later is shoving him through the door. Marc turns to glare at the younger man; this all feels very unnecessary (and stupid). A quick scan of the room tells him that (thankfully) Valentino isn’t present. Even the boys wouldn’t be that stupid, he thinks anyway.

Marc keeps his head down once he’s scouted the room, trying to blend into his surroundings. Pecco keeps pushing him forward. He doesn’t think this is a good teammate-bonding exercise.

On the sofas, a few of the boys are lounging, scrolling through their phones or talking between themselves. To Marc’s surprise, it’s Mig who greets him first with a quick ‘ciao’ and a friendly smile. The others continue in kind. None of them seem confused by his presence which suggests that this was planned. Marc struggles to wrap his head around why they’ve committed to this; he assumes that Pecco is simply the designated kidnapper for the evening.

Luca is up by the sink. He twists around at the sound of chatter, smiling softly but bemusedly when he sees Marc.

“Sorry,” Luca offers, “It wasn’t my idea, but the others think some forced bonding might make it easier for Vale”

Luca laughs incredulously at the idea. Bez immediately scrambles to his feet and launches into a defence.

“It’s a brilliant idea; Valentino has to realise at some point that he’s being stupid-”

“Said the one who only realised two weeks ago” Cele mutters. Bez shoots him a glare and turns back to Marc with wary eyes.

“Yeah, sorry about that” Bez begrudgingly murmurs, avoiding eye contact.

Marc stares, and there’s another awful pregnant pause as the room looks on. Marc assumes this is a pretty defining moment for their relationship.

He sighs.

“It’s fine. It’s too much effort to hold grudges. You hate me because of what Valentino has said, he’s your hero. I don’t blame you.”

Pecco claps a hand on the back of his neck. Marc tries not to flinch. Since Dovi and Dani left the paddock a few years ago, Marc’s been pretty isolated. He isn’t used to the casual touching that comes naturally to these boys. He doesn’t know whether to pull away or lean in. 

Bez stands and pulls Marc into a slightly stiff half hug (Marc’s sure that they will get there), before he slumps back onto the sofa, practically on top of Cele, causing the younger to squawk and fall into a fit of giggles.

Like that, the tension is broken.

 Luca rolls his eyes and turns back to the kitchenette, as Pecco leans up against the counter next to him. Marc stands awkwardly for a second but perches on the sofa’s edge when Franky pats the space. He feels out of place, too jagged for the smooth comfort of the motorhome. The boys are so comfortable in each other’s presence whereas Marc feels like an intruder. He is content to listen quietly whilst the others talk.

Underneath his skin, discomfort prickles. He isn’t meant to be here, he is scared that if he opens his mouth, they will all flinch, push him away, and realise what they have done. Or he will say the wrong thing, and be accused of evil, or something. He is too stiff, his spine upright as he perches on the sofa. Luca keeps looking over at him, Franky too. The latter is typing frantically, at one point stopping to squint between Marc and his phone. Marc pointedly doesn’t look back.

He misses Pecco and Franky’s shared glance over his head, too busy watching Bez and Cele interact. Marc thinks they are the youngest of the main academy group; they certainly act more childish together, like the younger brothers of the group. An odd mix of boyish humour and pining glances is shared between them. It's somewhat sweet.

He wonders whether they’re dating.

A hand lands on his shoulder and he jerks, immediately freezing and hoping it isn’t too obvious. He stays still, not daring to glance at where Franky’s hand rests. He tries to act normal; it’s just someone (one of Valentino’s students) touching him (someone other than Alex) as if that’s something that ever happens at races (it doesn’t, it hasn’t in years).

Marc relaxes slightly as the conversation continues around him, no one drawing attention to the way Franky’s fingers curl over his shoulder, hovering slightly as if he’s afraid to fully commit to touching. The stiffness in Marc’s body ebbs as he sinks into the touch, allowing Franky’s grip to become a grounding presence. He tries incredibly hard not to overthink.

(He fails)

Marc is so stuck in his thoughts that he barely notices Luca and Pecco moving, only registering when Luca tucks himself into the final space on the sofa, between Marc and the arm. Pecco trails after him, sitting on the floor in front of them and launching into a discussion with the others. It places Marc firmly between Franky and Luca, with Pecco shifting to lean back against Luca’s legs. On the adjacent sofa, Bez is still practically in Cele’s lap, joking around with Mig as if used to it.

There is a poke to his leg whilst he is distracted, followed swiftly by another. His attention is drawn to Pecco, whose finger is raised as if mid-attempt three. Marc raises an eyebrow.

“What do you think? Rain or no rain?” Pecco asks.

Marc hums under his breath, considering. He is glad Pecco has brought him into easy conversation territory. It has been glorious all day but there are talks of it turning overnight, as it had yesterday. It is uncertain but not off the radar completely. Spain tends to be hot, even in September, but it isn’t rare to have rain showers. He says as much.

He wonders why Pecco asked so out of the blue since the younger man simply nods in assent and moves the conversation on.

Franky shifts, draping his arm across Marc’s shoulders now. Marc unconsciously relaxes into the touch, leaning into Franky ever so slightly. It is odd, how quickly he is adapting to this behaviour. His shoulders drop and he falls back against the sofa.

Marc doesn’t notice Franky’s pleased smile, nor how his phone vibrates in his hand. If Marc were less tired and more engaged, he might piece together that his brother has a hand in this.

Alex knows him better than anyone else and knows that Marc will let his guard down when he feels comfortable. The boys have done a frighteningly good job of acting normal despite the forced proximity. Their joking and complete lack of interest in what Marc’s doing makes it easier for his mask to slip, just a little bit.

If Marc was thinking clearly, he would realise that the impromptu physical contact is Alex’s doing too. Marc isn’t very tactile in the paddock but always reaches for Alex when they’re close. Alex likes to tease him about being “touch starved”, and Marc always pouts until he relents.

It explains why Marc can’t help but melt into touches though, like with Dovi last weekend, or Franky now. He hates that Alex is right; so long as he has time to adapt, he loves physical touch, it’s his love language or something.

Of course, Franky and Luca have been nominated as instigators due to their general neutrality towards Marc. And with the help of Alex’s expertise, it’s proving fairly effective, with Marc feeling more and more settled as time passes, slipping into a state of sleepiness.

*

Marc tries his hardest to keep up with the rapidly moving discussion (currently- the best wet races of all time). He contributes as much as he can without overdoing it and makes a conscious effort not to be too much.

It's tiring, especially on a race weekend. The exhaustion is threatening to overcome him, he can tell by the way his eyes are drooping and his muscles relax.

Marc yawns into his hand. Luca laughs.

“Tired?” He asks.

Marc shrugs, “Long day,” he says, blinking sleepily at Luca. It's slightly embarrassing the way he has shifted into the taller man's warmth. He doesn’t really know when it happened. Someone still has their arm across his shoulders (Franky). It should feel weird (it doesn’t).

“Long month”, Marc corrects himself with a wry grin, his words slurring.

Luca is the only member of the group he has been friendly with before; the person he probably feels safest with. He can feel his eyes shutting of their own accord and tries to shake himself awake.

The others are chatting between themselves, no one is paying attention to Marc. Luca smiles softly at him, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder.

He falls silent after that, in a state of half-awareness, still leaning into Luca’s space. Time feels slow and syrupy as he sinks into the warmth.

 He will be embarrassed after, but now, he doesn’t care. He hasn’t had companionship on the grid for so long, apart from Dovi, and then he too left.

The conversation continues around him, but Marc doesn’t notice. The sound is muffled, the only notion he has is the soothing rumble of Luca talking and the occasional shift of Franky’s arm.

If he tries hard enough, he can pick out the words. He doesn’t. Marc lets his breathing even out and a blanket of calm settles over him. Content.

*

Pecco is trying to think of another time he has seen Marc so vulnerable. Only when he and Bez had stormed into his motorhome in Misano. Before then, it would have been 2015 - after that Marc’s walls had been built, tall and unscalable.

Valentino was the one who triggered it. They can see so clearly as they deconstruct brick by brick. So, the sight of Marc, potentially asleep, sprawled on top of Luca, Valentino’s little brother. Well, it’s giving Pecco whiplash. It’s sort of sweet, the way Marc curls into Luca’s body heat (Pecco would be jealous, if not for Marc’s clear preference for Valentino). It’s also incredibly at odds with the image of Marc which has been painted in his head for years. He doesn’t think a ruthless and cruel man would practically cuddle up to his rival’s little brother.

Franky interrupts his staring with a pointed nudge. Before Pecco can respond, they’re interrupted by the front door banging open.

Marc stirs.

They all stare at him.

Valentino storms in.

Luca sighs.

“Who does he think he is?” Valentino seethes.

“Vale-” Luca tries to interrupt with little success.

“Honestly, he drives me crazy, I can’t believe Marc even likes him. It's so freaking stupid.”

Marc grumbles unhappily at the noise, trying to push himself further into Luca and the sofa cushions. Luca pets his head. It makes a funny image, Pecco thinks, a bit like a cat.

Valentino is pacing now, completely unaware of the looks he’s receiving. 

“He goes and talks to the freaking media and goes on and on about Marc and how talented he is. He sounds like Casey. Then-”

He turns to the group- arms thrown into the air for dramatic effect

“-Then he corners me and tells me to be careful. Can you believe it?? I have to be careful. Tells me not to hurt him. Like he has any right. Fucking Dovi” Valentino protests

Luca scoffs. Valentino stops mid-rant, his eyes falling on Marc and Luca. The former of whom he has only just noticed. His eyes widen in shock as he abruptly cuts off, his arms falling to his sides. His expression would be funny, if not for the circumstances.

Time stops.

The whole room holds their breath, waiting for a reaction. It doesn’t come, Vale looks at Luca curiously but appears to register no threat and instead smiles softly at Marc sleeping.

The peace lasts approximately 5 seconds.

“Can you please shut up” Marc grumbles, shoving his face into Luca’s sweatshirt.

Then his eyes fly open and he shoots upwards.

“Fuck” he scrambles off Luca and the sofa, eyes darting around the room.

His hair is fluffy and askew, his body tense, a second away from taking off.

Pecco and Franky groan in sync. The smile has fallen off Vale's face. Marc’s eyes are wide, huge.

He trips over himself in a haste to get to the door. No one says anything.

“I’m just- um- I’m going to go” Marc stutters, pointing at the door.

He glances at Luca, flicking his eyes to Franky and Pecco.

“Thanks for the um- yeah, thanks,” he says, his voice strangled.

He bolts before anyone can reply.

Franky is the first to move, standing up and whacking Valentino up the backside of the head.

“What was that for?” Valentino whines, reaching a hand up to rub his head.

“You know what. Get your shit together already” Franky says

The group breaks into sniggers and the tension melts immediately.

Valentino stares longingly at the door.

*

On Sunday the atmosphere is electric. It ricochets around the paddock.

Marc is still reeling from last night as he treks towards the garages. Panic, ambition, and adrenaline humming under his skin.

 He doesn’t quite know why he reacted so strongly but he was (and still is) mortified. He had tentatively made up with Valentino, told him he needed time, and then fallen asleep on his brother in his motorhome. It doesn’t help that Valentino had charged in ranting about him, or maybe Dovi. Marc isn’t sure. He has to admit, sprinting out of the motorhome wasn’t his finest moment, but what can a man do? He was shocked and scared. He reacted on instinct.

It definitely had nothing to do with the look in Valentino’s eyes. 

Anyway, it probably didn’t matter now. After that performance, Vale doubtless thinks he’s pathetic. The man Valentino used to know was untarnished by this fear and pain. He had not been through all of the shit, the injuries, the medication. Surely Valentino doesn’t want him now. The realisation hurts.

Marc pushes it to the back of his mind; he can’t think about it too much right now. He has a race to win after all.

The air by the track is filled with red smoke, it snakes through the sky with the breeze, settling like a blanket of fire across the circuit. The stands are painted red, with people waving his banners and sporting his merch in a show of solidarity and love that has Marc grinning ear to ear.

Marc feels the support of the crowd like a pair of arms wrapping around him, it almost makes his knees buckle. He waves at every fan he passes and dutifully stops to sign and pose for photos. People continue to shout support at him as he goes, encouraging him to win, thanking him for the interview, and telling him that they love him. He takes every word to heart and pockets the emotions somewhere deep inside him.

He takes that energy, the feeling, into the race, so when he’s lining up on the grid, it’s thrumming inside of him. It courses through his veins with every cheer of the crowd, pumped through his heart, to his tense muscles.

He flips his visor down and prepares to raise hell.

This feels monumental, a fuck you to his doubters and haters. It feels like a plea to Vale and to the world to let him have the good after so much bad.

He throws himself into the race. Leaves everything behind on the track. He watches as the gap between himself and the battle for second grows and grows, as he leaves the others in the dust.

Not once does he falter.

Marc doesn’t make a single mistake.

This weekend he could be 20 again, alive and untainted. Riding purely on the self-assurance only someone so young could possess.

He has skill now, on top of the talent. Years of hard work and dedication. 

He is the Ant of Cevera. The thunder which cracks through the air like a whip. He is an 8-time world champion and he will not go down without a fight.

So, he doesn’t.

Marc keeps extending his lead, pushing the bike to the limit even though he can taste victory. It will never be enough unless he has left everything he has on the race track.

By the time he enters the last lap, he’s built up a 5-second lead. With no one breathing down his neck, he allows himself to enjoy it, to hear the rumble of the crowd over the whine of the engine. He lets himself tumble off the edge into delirium.

Crossing the finish line feels biblical like the heavens have opened just for him, shining a light onto his victory. It is monumental; he feels like the world’s balance has been restored. He is back, and he has risen above every challenge thrown at him. 

Marc raises his fists to the sky, standing on his bike as the first tear rolls down his cheek. He grins.

Pecco is the first to reach him, holding a hand out as they ride side by side and patting Marc on the shoulder. The others follow, old and new friends on the grid slow to ride at his pace and offer congratulations. Alex pulls his bike near and reaches for Marc’s hand. Even through their helmets, Marc can see Alex’s megawatt smile.

Although it is Marc’s second win in as many weeks, it feels colossal – proof that he can overcome anything, proof that it wasn’t a fluke. The others can tell.

Once he reaches his dedicated fan stand, he pulls his bike to a stop. He falls to his knees in front of them, praising them for everything they have done for him. Their unwavering faith through it all. Through Valentino’s hate campaign, his injury, and now this. He owes them a lot. So, he celebrates with them, for them, and for this win.

When he eventually rescues his bike, he returns to the other people he owes this win to – his family.

They are there when he pulls his bike to a stop, as they always have been for his whole life, through thick and thin. He is fully crying now.

Marc reaches for his mum first, letting her pull him into an embrace as his team slap him on the back. Alex and his dad are next, each hugging him for as long as he needs.

They can read his emotions too well.

Marc pulls his helmet off, shaking his hair out and squeezing his eyes shut. He is not embarrassed by the tear which rolls off his nose. His dad wipes it away.

When Marc opens his eyes again, he is confronted by a startling blue gaze.

Valentino is there, waiting in parc-ferme, probably for Pecco. Marc thinks he finished second. He doesn’t know.

But then Valentino is walking towards him, stopping at the edge of the sea of Gresini blue and staring at Marc. The tears won’t stop now, not after everything.

Marc stays still, frozen as Vale parts the crowd to reach Marc. When just a fence separates them, Marc has to clench his hands into fists to contain himself.

This feels significant, Valentino seeking him out, in front of all of these people. It feels like an admission, an apology.

God, Marc has wanted this forever. Futile in his hopes for Valentino to reach out, even years after. There has been an ache inside of him for years, the gaping hole of deceit from someone held in high esteem.

When he was 22, he desperately grappled with Valentino’s rejection in such a public sphere, followed by the hit of stomach-wrenching longing which settled for the long haul. He has repressed for years. Every time he reached out to Valentino, his hand was so cruelly pushed away. Even now, he is waiting for the blow to land. There is doubt creeping in at the edges, seeping through their hastily patched-up relationship. It will not be an easy fix. 

Marc is scared to meet his eyes, always so bright- intelligent, sharp.

The paddock seems to fall quiet.

Marc’s heart is pounding. He wonders if Valentino can hear it.

Valentino reaches forward, and echoes his dad’s movement from moments ago, brushing a stray tear off his cheek. Marc looks up, shocked.

A soft smile greets him, Valentino staring at him with something close to adoration. Marc gulps. It feels too good to be true – like a dream. Even after the promises Valentino has made, the trust has been broken for a long time.

Marc can only cling to hope and pray he isn’t making a mistake.

The softness in Valentino’s gaze tells him that he isn’t.

Before, Valentino used to glance at him with a sweet look, the kind you’d give a child. But then Marc had gotten good, really good, he had become a threat. The looks turned bitter, tinted with jealousy, with annoyance.

Eventually, hatred.

There is none of that now.

“Don’t cry, Bambino” Valentino whispers.

“Happy tears” Marc replies, his voice quiet and choked. Valentino hasn’t called him that in years.

Valentino tugs his arm, bringing his arm to wrap around Marc and pull him into a warm embrace. The crowd erupts, screaming and cheering. Marc has his eyes screwed up; his face tucked into Valentino’s neck. When he pulls back, Valentino looks alive, and so, so fond. Suddenly the world is in technicolour, and everything falls into place.

Valentino’s eyes are alight with joy. Marc tilts his head, searching for something more. That ache inside of him is dissipating.

Valentino, as always, knows. Understands.

“Later” Valentino whispers, Marc just nods.

They’re pulled out of their world by a firm hand clapped onto each of their shoulders. Marc turns to see Pecco grinning next to him, and Pedro in the arms of his team behind.

Pecco pulls Marc into an embrace and slaps his back, before turning toward Valentino, telling him that he’s a crazy idiot, and allowing the older man to pull him into a bone-crushing hug.

When Marc turns back to his family, his parents are frowning, his mother's eyes thoughtful. His heart clenches. He hates the idea of disappointing them.

It must show on his face, as before he can blink, he’s being pulled back into his mother’s arms and she presses a kiss into his hair.

The team cajole him into a photo, two fingers up for his two wins this season. They cheer and shout his name, their arms wrapped around his family and supportive hands on his shoulders where he is crouched in front of them. Marc feels so loved; he feels so happy. Two wins in two weeks after a three-year drought. Somehow, it feels better than if he had been winning all this time.

He is pulled away too soon and sent to the podium.

Marc beams and beams with happiness in front of his home crowd. His cheeks hurt. His heart is full. The crowd is screaming his name. As he climbs onto the top step, he meets Valentino's eyes.

 There is a shared understanding which passes through them.

Marc looks to the heavens and smiles.

Chapter Text

The champagne flows for a long time afterwards. The team is rowdy with it, pulling the brothers around as they dance and sing, rejoicing in the feeling of another win.  Marc somehow ends up being thrown into the air by a group of mechanics, he tosses his head back and grins, laughing loudly in exhilaration. Someone is filming it; he just prays they don’t drop him. His mum only seems slightly concerned, standing aside with glistening eyes. Unlike his dad, she rarely comes to their races, so he’s delighted he could pull this off with her here.

There isn’t a time without a hand on his shoulder or around his waist. Frankie pulls him into a tight hug and Nadia holds him like his mother would, kissing his cheeks and patting his hair. Marc clambers onto Alex’s shoulders and lets his brother parade him around. His parents watch fondly. Marc laughs until he can’t breathe and wants to stay in this moment forever.

In the interlude of celebrations, Marc sneaks off to throw himself into the arms of his old Honda team. They welcome him enthusiastically, congratulating him with fervour. Luca is there too and Marc accepts a firm hug from him, thankfully devoid of any awkwardness from last night. He misses Honda dearly but knows they will always have his back and be there to celebrate his wins. He tries to wipe a tear away surreptitiously; the hand Santi lays on his shoulder suggests it’s redundant.

They dump a bottle of champagne on him when he returns to the Gresini garage. He tries to shuffle in without causing a commotion; to pretend he hasn’t just left for ten minutes without telling anyone. It is obvious that they notice, but no one says anything. He is grateful.

It is what he loves about this team, they recognise his strengths alongside his weaknesses; turning a blind eye to his oddities. Instead, they once more soak him with champagne and love. They party with him and match his energy with loud laughter and stupid dancing. He joined Gresini to enjoy racing again; he didn’t think he would find a family. Suddenly, he understands that he regrets nothing. Being here, surrounded by so much love and joy, makes every sacrifice worth it.

He’s soaked and sticky by the time he leaves. Begging off for a shower before he is dragged into more celebrations. There have already been extravagant promises of a fun night – Marc has left someone else to organise it. He knows with their parents here, it will at least start with dinner and drinks as a team, and maybe progress to a bar, or a club - somewhere private and tucked away. The whole team will attend and inevitably meet a bunch of other crews and riders while they’re there. There’s an aching familiarity to it.

Familiar in the same way that it's Valentino who seeks Marc out first. It is inevitable, in a way, how Marc is freshly showered and halfway through attempting to tame his hair when someone knocks on his motorhome door. How the shock courses through him when he opens the door to see Valentino on the other side. Marc thinks his poor motorhome has been the domain for enough drama in the past few weeks. 

He lets Valentino in any way.

(He always does)

Valentino slips through the door quietly, shutting it behind him. It is the only sound that rings in the space between them. Marc looks at the man in front of him and prays that he hasn’t read this wrong. He begs the universe for this one last thing, that Valentino wants him back and will learn to treasure him like Marc so desperately wants.

Mercifully, Alex left a little while ago. Marc has his suspicions about that. The timing is awfully convenient and his brother smiles at his phone more these days.

(So does Franky)

Marc observes Valentino, standing in front of him, on this random day in 2024. He thinks about how much has changed from 2013, 15, and 18. It feels like a world away. Marc considers the longing in Valentino’s eyes, the differences in his behaviour, and the way he stared whilst Marc was on top of the podium. Like Marc was the sun, the stars, and all of the planets.

Marc takes a step closer.

It feels monumental – make or break.

It has been years, years of aching, of pain, of hatred.

Valentino meets him halfway. Wrapping his arms around Marc and pulling him in; he presses his cheek against Marc’s hair. There is comfort in the way Valentino sighs and the warmth of his breath against the crown of Marc’s head. It feels like home. A long abandoned, slightly dilapidated place, but home all the same.

Marc pulls back, which makes Valentino tighten his arms on instinct, unwilling to let go. It has been an age since he last had this.

Marc finds himself tipping his head back to meet Valentino’s eyes and tentatively brushing their lips together. Squeezing his eyes shut and waiting for a rejection which never comes.

“I’m so proud of you” Valentino murmurs in between kisses, his breath ghosting over Marc’s face as he speaks.

It is that which tips him over the edge, breaking his fragile self-restraint and sending shock waves through him.

Marc pushes forward, crowding Vale up against the wall and laying his hands on firm shoulders. Distantly. Marc knows this is too brittle to rush, to sustain any kind of pressure. He doesn’t care.

He’s been waiting too long - to win again, to heal, for Valentino to come to his senses.

He pushes himself onto his toes, screwing his eyes shut as he takes and takes, everything he’s ever wanted. He kisses Valentino like a dying man. as if Vale is oxygen and Marc is suffocating. He refuses to break for air.

He revels in the way their lips seem to fit perfectly, how Valentino still automatically nips at Marc’s lower lip whenever they part and are pulled back together, like the tide. Valentino’s tongue swipes at the seam of Marc's lips and Marc opens his mouth on instinct, humming into it. He is starving for this.

Eventually, they have to part, their foreheads pressed together as they gasp into each other’s mouths. Marc is the first to recover, trailing open-mouthed kisses across Valentino’s jaw and down his neck. It makes the older man groan softly.

A hand pushes at his shoulder.

“Marc,” Valentino whispers, choking off a quiet groan as Marc sucks lightly below his ear.

The hand pushes harder.

“Bambino, stop, we need to talk”, he urges.

Marc hums against his skin, Valentino’s not being particularly convincing. He doesn’t stop.

Valentino huffs but doesn't sound too annoyed.

“Gattino,” He warns. Marc shifts slightly, it’s been a very long time since he’s heard that one. He hates the way he goes ever so slightly pliant.

It gives Valentino enough time to switch their positions, pushing Marc away from him and spinning him around until his back meets the wall. Marc pouts at him grumpily.

“Unfair.” He mutters, but won’t meet Vale's eyes.

“Later, I promise. I’ll take care of you, but you deserve more than this, than here.” Vale pushes, pressing a soothing kiss to his cheek. He steps away, putting some distance between them for his own sanity. He has to get this right.

Valentino sighs, eyes flitting across the room before falling back to Marc, who has finally gathered the strength to meet his gaze.

“I know we have so much to work through” Valentino reflects; Marc nods in agreement.

Valentino pushes down the bitter reflux which tells him this would be easier if he’d done it a decade ago. He continues.

“I think we both know that it’s not going to be easy. There’s a lot for me to atone for. You’re worth every second of it. Every argument, every second of my discomfort and pain.”

Marc scoffs. Valentinos sighs,

“That’s fair. I know you’ve gone through it worse than me”

There’s a pregnant pause; Marc waits for Valentino to continue.

“It’s not- I’m- cazzo.”

Valentino tries again, “I hate this, I hate admitting I was wrong.”

Marc replying laugh is brittle, Valentino winces.

“I know I’ve fucked up Marc, I know I’ve caused enough pain. Everyone came to see it clearly; I became stupid with it a long time ago. You make me stupid. Even the people close to me have been practically begging me to shut up for the last few years. I’ve become bitter, and cruel. The pain I felt back then has become so twisted and out of control, sour and rotten.”

He’s not meeting Marc’s eyes.

“there’s not much more that I can do to fix it. Just admit it, try to atone for it, promise to make it up to you.”

Marc frowns, “what’s changed?”

Deep inside Marc, alongside the soothed content, there is a burning injustice and rotting pain. Valentino looks so very sad. Marc doesn’t budge.

“Frankly, I’ve been an idiot. Last weekend was a big wake-up call. I re-evaluated, well, just about everything. I’m sure the boys told you just how much of a mess I’ve been. It turns out I’ve been wrong this whole time, I’m not sure that sunk in before. And I’ve managed to fuck both of us over in the process. I’m so sorry for the pain I’ve caused. I won’t lie to you; I still feel my hurt was justified after Sepang-”

Marc squints at him, mouth open to protest but Valentino beats him to it.

“I handled it awfully. And I was horrible. And I did irreparable damage to you and your family and I will never not be angry at myself for it. I was hurt, yes. But I was also the older one, I should have been the one to handle it like an adult but instead, I was too wrapped up in myself and my anger. I will spend every day for the rest of my life trying to make up for it if you will let me.” He implores.

“But you, Marc, you are the most incredible man I have ever met. I spent the week watching the races, and the documentaries. Looking for everything I missed, realising that I should have been there for you. You are so unbelievably strong. So brave.”

Valentino takes a shuddering breath.

“It felt like I opened my eyes for the first time in years. You truly are incredible, and not just on a bike. I see how the boys look up to you, how they could learn to love you if they don’t already. You’ve won over Bez and Pecco in a couple of weeks. I don’t think you ever needed to try with Mig or Luca. And well, your brother’s helping a lot with Franky.” He is choking on his words now, a small laugh escaping at the thought of the two together.

When Valentino looks up from the floor, there are tears in Marc’s eyes. 

“Please let me make it up to you. Let me make this right. I want everything. I want to take you out properly. Somewhere nice. Please Marc?” He begs.

Marc chuckles in disbelief, “You don’t need to ask twice to wine and dine me. I’m sorry too. I’m sorry we ended so catastrophically. I was so angry; I felt so small and stupid. It still hurts, I’m not sure if it’ll ever fully go. You realise that right? And I’m not the same man I was when I was twenty. I have scars now, physical and metaphorical. I’m weak, I cry, I have a therapist. I don’t want you to be disappointed that I can’t be the same person. I will always be too much.” Marc sniffs.

Valentino smiles gently.

“You could never be too much for me. I think you are everything I need. Everything I could ever want. I don’t care that you cry. I love everything about you, emotions and all. I want you to be happy, I want to make you happy.”, he assures.

Marc can’t help it, he can’t hold back any longer, he practically launches himself at Valentino. He knows all is not fixed, and it certainly isn’t all forgiven and they probably both need a fuck tonne of therapy but still.

Waiting is boring and Marc has never been one to do things at normal speed.

He fists his hands into Valentino’s shirt and slams their lips together, smirking when Valentino groans into the kiss.

Marc takes control immediately, pushing their chests together and trailing his hands up Vale’s body so he can lick into his mouth the minute he gasps. It isn’t gentle, maybe it should be, or perhaps the time for gentle has long since passed.

Marc tries to push them away from the wall but Valentino holds steadfast, keeping Marc bracketed by his arms.

Marc grapples at Valentino’s shoulder and then moves to dig his fingertips into Vale’s sides, underneath his shirt. Valentino smiles when he breaks the kiss, soothing Marc’s hands away.

The younger wiggles against the wall, trying to regain purchase on Valentino, who simply cups his jaw and pulls him into a gentler kiss.

Marc doesn’t want slow; he wants rough and preferably the bedroom. Valentino hums. Marc’s hands find their way under his shirt, running up and down Valentino’s smooth, flat stomach, trying to get a reaction.

Valentino shifts, and Marc follows. The older man pulls away, resting their foreheads together. He chuckles when Marc tries to kiss his neck, pulling the same dirty move as before.

He takes Marc’s hands in his own, his grip commanding. In one swift move, Marc’s arms are pinned above his head, straining against one of Vale’s own.

 Valentino raises his eyebrows, “behave” He orders.

Marc whines, high and girlish. His cheeks flush red instantly, embarrassment flooding him.

Valentino’s answering grin is wicked.

Marc forgets that they’ve not really done this before. Sure, they had a one-night stand, years ago. Not enough to know each other properly, to discover what elicits the best reactions out of each other.

Sometimes it feels like they are two sides of the same coin, prophesied to come together.

When really in some ways, they are strangers and have spent more time hating each other than loving. 

Marc can’t help but feel like he’s just let a big play slip.

“Like that, hm?” Valentino murmurs, pecking his lips, pulling him into a soft kiss, making him chase.

Marc wants to hide his face, to shy away, but there’s nowhere for him to go. He drops his eyes. Valentino tuts,

“Look at me” He commands.

Marc can’t help it; he brings his gaze up.

Valentino looks like the cat who’s got the cream, Marc scowls.

“Don’t make fun of me” He grouses.

Valentino laughs, but it isn’t cruel, instead sweet and slightly awed.

“Trust me, Bambino, I’m not. This is good. I’m looking forward to working out the best ways to make you come undone.” He smirks.

Marc can feel his cheeks burning. It’s been a long time since he’s been with someone like this in bed, someone who will make him work and reduce him to a babbling mess. Excitement stirs in his gut.

He tries to pull his hands free, to get this going again but quickly realises that he can’t move. He wonders why they haven’t been doing this for years and spares a thought for the fact that Valentino can apparently at least somewhat hold him down.

It’s such a turn-on, making him rut against Valentino’s thigh, looking up at the older man from beneath his lashes. The older man looks breathless, his pupils blown wide as he watches Marc writhe underneath him. Marc moans enthusiastically.

Valentino draws his leg away.

 “I’m sorry Carino, not today, okay? Slowly, we have to go slowly. I’m not ruining this now I’ve only just got you back.”

Marc’s eyes fly open, and he huffs miserably when he sees nothing but honesty and slight regret in Valentino’s eyes. He pushes against the arms holding him firm, and tries to arch into Valentino’s space, to push them together again.

“Come on Vale, just once? Please? I’ll be good” He pleads.

There’s a sharp intake of air, Valentino drops his head, looks like he’s gathering mental strength.

“Later, Tesoro. Not now.” He groans through gritted teeth.

Marc could push this; he could sway Valentino into fucking him up against the wall. But for once, Valentino is right. Marc finally relents and stops fidgeting, allowing them to calm down without increasing the space between them. He sighs, looking into Vale's eyes.

“I love you. It might be the worst decision I’ve ever made, but I love you so much” Marc whispers.

Valentino smiles gently, “I love you too, Gattino”.

“I just don’t want you to leave. I couldn’t do that again. Do you mean it, you love me, no matter what?” Marc searches, his eyes wide and sincere. 

Valentino hums. He presses a kiss on Marc’s forehead.

“I will always love you. I will spend the rest of my life proving it. You could tell me every worst thing about you and I would cherish those. Tell me all your darkest secrets, I will still love you. Always. Forever”

He whispers it against Marc’s lips and promises himself that he will never let this go.

Valentino holds Marc tight in a motorhome in Aragon and vows to be at his side for the rest of their lives.

Till death do them part.

*fin*

Chapter Text

*6 months later*

It’s cold in Italy, unseasonably frosty but dry, at least. Marc steadies himself on the driveway, taking some deep breaths from behind the wheel. He refused a lift from the airport, choosing instead a hire car to ensure a quick escape if it’s needed. Now he’s sitting in said car, trying not to have a panic attack.

He stares up at the imposing building in front of him. The ranch house sits proudly at the edge of the property– all brick and wood with big windows which probably spill the light in during summer. It has changed, from ten years ago. Marc doesn’t know why that shocks him. His hands are shaking.

He cannot fathom what he’s doing here, in Tavullia on a random Monday in January. In a few weeks, he’ll be at the Ducati factory, filming and testing as their newest rider. He thinks he might be insane.

Valentino must have heard him pulling in, the loose scattering of gravel crunching under the wheels. Marc can see movement inside; his heart is beating out of his chest.

Things between him and Vale have been better, since Aragon. It has taken a lot of awkward conversation and a couple of fuck ups to even get to this stage. Marc’s slowly been getting used to the boys, whilst keeping Vale far away from his family (who still haven’t come around). They have been tentatively dating, trying to figure out how to fit into each other’s lives without implosion.

Marc has previously refused anything more than a couple of low-key dates on race weekends and spending time in Vale’s hotel room. Meeting on non-neutral ground feels like a big step, and now Marc is here, back where it all went so wrong the first time, potentially feeding himself to the lions.

He screws his eyes shut and breathes deeply. Alex will be here at the weekend. They will get through it. He steels himself to unflex his fingers from where they grip the steering wheel. His knuckles are white.

The front door to the house creeps open, Valentino emerging from behind. After all of these years, he still makes Marc slightly breathless. It has been a long time since he’s seen Valentino like this, dressed in a loose hoodie and sweatpants, his socked feet without shoes. Marc climbs out of the car, heading around the back to grab his bag before locking the doors and shuffling forward.

Vale stands on the threshold, looking as unsure as Marc feels - his hands reach forward before pulling back. Marc decides for him, wrapping his arms around Valentino and allowing the older man to pull him in and press his lips to the crown of Marc’s head. Marc smiles into his chest. It is good to know that he is not the only one who is nervous.

When they pull apart, Marc tilts his head towards Valentino and finds soft eyes already watching him, startlingly blue in the morning light. Valentino’s lips twitch upwards as he tilts his head down to brush a kiss against Marc’s mouth.

Valentino takes Marc’s bag before he can protest, lugging it down the hall and setting it down in what Marc assumes is Valentino’s room. There is a bike sitting by the footboard, one of Vale’s. Marc’s breath hitches, the rumours were true then. The sheets look fresh, untouched. The sun filters through the large windows located adjacent to the bed. Valentino shows no signs of hesitance in welcoming Marc into his home. It makes Marc’s heart contract, beating double time at the show of familiarity and trust.

The unease slowly slips off Marc’s shoulders like satin as he relaxes into the space. It’s just the two of them for now. It’s nice, there is a settled kind of peace in the air – a contentedness rolling off both of them. Valentino tugs him around the house, giving him a tour. He never got to this point last time, only saw brief flashes of parts of the house back in 2014. He pushes the memory away and smiles as one of Valentino’s dogs trails curiously behind them, occasionally nudging a wet nose into the back of Marc’s knees.

He could settle here, Marc thinks. The thought catches him off guard and makes him do a double-take. He stares at the gentle slope of Valentino’s shoulders underneath his too-large t-shirt. The way he looks so soft and gentle. Marc doesn’t realise that he’s stopped, even when he feels the soft brush of fur against his calves as the dog pushes past him. Valentino pauses, looking back over his shoulder. His face is relaxed, his eyes adoring, tinged with concern as he notices Marc has paused.

“Marc, Angelo, what’s wrong?” He says, striding back, cupping his face gently. His gaze tracks over Marc's frame, assessing for hurt or pain, his hand grazing over Marc’s arm.

Over the past 3 months, Valentino has had to relearn her Marc’s body. It was difficult, to come to terms with the chronic pain Marc faces daily. Sometimes, Marc would shuffle into his hotel room, late after a race, his arm stiff by his side, looking dazed and in pain. Every time, Valentino would run a bath and painstakingly massage his arm and shoulder until the pain lessened, kissing away the tears which gathered in Marc’s lash line.

It has been difficult for Marc to allow himself to be looked after; he is learning though. Now, he just smiles, small and closed-lip. He kisses Vale, once, twice.

“Nothing, mi amour. I love you.” He whispers.

Valentino answers with a grin and a soft “I love you too”.

It is worth everything to Marc.

*

Cohabiting with someone you used to hate is odd.

They spend two days in a strange kind of domestic bliss. Their nights are spent wrapped around each other in Vale’s bed, satiated and sleepy. Valentino wakes up every morning to prepare Marc a coffee, just how he likes it, and delivers it with a sweet kiss. In the intervals between cooking or meetings, Valentino wraps his arms around Marc from behind and kisses his forehead softly.

Marc thinks he could get used to domestic bliss.

Valentino whines and complains when Marc asks to use the gym.

(“You’re supposed to be on a break”)

But he sits and watches Marc work out each time without fail, revelling in the way Marc flushes prettily when he catches Vale staring.

(Cardio usually ends up being done in the bedroom).

On Wednesday, Valentino pulls Marc towards the garage to show him the impressive bike selection he keeps. Valentino has spent years (and a lot of money) amassing his collection, including a few of his old MotoGP ones. Marc looks awed, his fingers trailing over handlebars and pausing on the bright ‘46’ of Vale’s 2005 Yamaha. Valentino watches with adoring eyes.

Marc is holding back a million questions, crouching to inspect each machine before moving on to the next. He appears at home among the bikes. Even so, Vale can tell Marc is antsy without one to ride. He desperately wants to appease Marc and show him around the track but also recognises the history here. Marc won't ask to ride, not after last time, and Valentino's pushing won’t go down well.

Valentino pretends to fiddle with a bike, tuning it up a bit, watching as Marc becomes more impatient. He tries to time it perfectly, waiting until the last minute to ensure the younger man will agree.

“We can ride, if you’d like?” Vale asks quietly.

Marc’s answering grin is wide.

Valentino hurries to pull out the bike he’s been tuning for Marc, unable to contain his excitement. The deep red ‘93’ is already in place.

When he turns back, Marc is half undressed, always so eager. But he has stopped still at the sight of the bike. He inches forward, running his hands across the throttle, a questioning look in his eyes. Valentino laughs uncomfortably, suddenly embarrassed.

“Well, you know- you need it for the weekend. And I was hoping you might want it here a bit more regularly going forward.”

He scratches his neck awkwardly, regretting his decision to be so forward. What if Marc doesn’t want to come back, or it is too much too soon?

Marc nudges against him, drawing Valentino’s attention back to reality. The smaller man pushes onto his tiptoes and presses a kiss to Vale’s lips, effectively wiping out any other thoughts.

“Thank you”, Marc whispers. It’s so painfully honest that it hurts.

Valentino kisses him again.

He brings his hands to Marc’s waist and is momentarily distracted by the bare, warm skin he finds. Of course, Marc is still half undressed. He pulls back to look at Marc shamelessly.

There are miles of tanned skin on display, unblemished other than his arm. Marc’s been somewhere hot over the break, Valentino saw the photos on Instagram. Marc with his friends, shirtless, his built chest and abs on full display as he laughed to the camera, golden sand and the crystal ocean behind him. Valentino is not ashamed to admit that he practically salivated when he saw them. It is no different now, with Marc standing in his garage. He doesn’t think Marc’s beauty will ever get old.  

Marc looks amazing like this, slightly dishevelled, glowing with happiness. Valentino wants to keep him here forever.

He kisses Marc firmly one more time and pushes him in the direction of where their leathers are hanging up side by side.

“Come on, let’s ride” He suggests, knowing that if they don’t go now, Vale will become sidetracked. Marc is all too happy to oblige.

It’s a good day to ride - clear and a little cold, but bright. Marc takes a few laps to settle into the track, evidence that it has been a long time since he was last at the ranch. Guilt churns in Vale’s stomach, maybe if he was kinder, less bitter, that would not be the case. The thought is cast aside soon enough as they’re chasing each other around the track, just like old times. The sound of laughter is loud and bright; it can be heard above the familiar two-stroke engines as they roar around the circuit.

The unbridled joy of riding is only slightly dampened by the undercurrent of fear radiating off Marc. Valentino observes the way his shoulders are slightly hunched, how he holds himself back, just a little, pulling the angle of his bike a smidge more upright than usual. Marc is scared he will fuck it up, push too hard, and send them both toppling into anger and misery once more. Valentino wants to put a stop to it.

He can practically see the memories flashing behind Marc’s eyes and he hits each apex. Vale tries to be a comforting presence, to show Marc that he’s safe. But Marc only fully relaxes when Valentino pulls him into a tight embrace after they finish their first quick laps. After that, they’re off, racing wheel to wheel like they were born to do.

Valentino quickly discovers that he no longer cares when Marc edges him across the line, content to kiss him thoroughly when they pull to stop, wiping any residue of worry off the younger man’s face.

Later, Valentino takes Marc back inside, pushing him towards the shower and grinning when Marc tugs him along too.

He has never been one to deny Marc what he wants.

He nudges the younger man into the bathroom, grabbing two of his fluffiest towels from the warmth of the airing cupboard en route.

By the time Valentino has locked the door Marc is already half out of his clothes, a pretty flush spreading from his cheeks down his chest. Valentino trails his eyes up and down Marc’s body, saliva pooling under his tongue.  

He gently pushes Marc up against the marble-countered sink, the smallest hint of pressure on his hips. Valentino bends down to reach Marc’s lips, making the younger man push up into his touch.

The kiss isn’t gentle, it’s deep and wanting, yearning for more. Valentino pushes his hands under Marc’s legs as he hops to sit fully on the counter, his fingertips searing the soft skin there. In return, Marc wraps strong thighs around Valentino’s waist, grinding up to seek friction. By the time they pull apart, they are both achingly hard.

Valentino regretfully breaks away, leaving Marc panting on his countertop so he can reach into the lavish shower and turn on the taps.

He knew that the ungodly amount of money he spent on this bathroom would be beneficial one day.

Once steam has filled the room, he pulls Marc to his feet, letting the younger man strip off his underwear before pushing him into the warm spray.

Valentino watches for a moment, wondering how he got so lucky, before he too steps out of his clothes. He brackets himself in behind Marc, wrapping his arms around the younger man’s waist as water pours over them. Marc leans into his hold.

Valentino chases a water droplet which rolls down Marc’s neck, sucking a mark lightly onto the juncture of his shoulder as his hands trace patterns onto his hip. Marc’s head falls back, his eyes fluttering as he groans quietly.

Valentino keeps going, following the trail of the water, spinning Marc around and pushing him against the wall. He sinks to his knees, fascinated by the way Marc’s eyes screw shut, his face scrunching. Valentino spends a long time laving his tongue across Marc’s abs, admiring Marc’s reactions as he licks across the younger’s hip bones and bites. Valentino could stay here for years.

(He couldn’t, his knees already hurt)

Marc’s quads tense as Vale sinks his teeth into the delicate flesh, strong muscle bracketing Vale’s head. Marc leans his weight against the wall, slightly boneless as Valentino continues to nibble on the soft skin, sucking until there’s a line of pretty purple bruises from mid-thigh to his groin.

It’s one of Vale’s favourite things to do, leaving blemishes on Marc’s tanned skin, like blots of ink on paper. Staining Marc and making him Vale’s own, after so many years. The added bonus is that Marc is always so pliant when Valentino does it. He goes limp and far away, his eyes dazed when they’re not rolling back in his head. He is reduced to a mess of whining and pleading.

Valentino is not immune.

Marc is above him, his legs shaking and whining as Valentino mouths everywhere but his dick, which is hard against his abs. Precum smears across his stomach, washed away by the spray of warm water sluicing over them.

Valentino takes pity on him, slipping one hand around his thigh and putting his mouth where Marc so desperately wants it. He licks a strip up Marc’s dick, revelling in the way his moans shift up a pitch. Marc releases little hitching breaths as he finally, finally, takes Marc all the way, sucking without hesitation.

Marc’s hands are scrabbling for purchase on the tiles. His moans get louder as he loses himself to the feeling. His brain is mush as he slips into another headspace, floating, the only thoughts are more and Vale. He can’t produce any words apart from Valentino’s name which he whines out. Marc brings a hand to his mouth, trying to stop the needy whines from slipping out.

Valentino taps his hip, “No, no. I want to hear you, Bambino”.

Marc groans, long and low, his hips bucking into the warmth of Vale’s mouth. The older man pins his hips against the wall. Marc’s knees damn near give out as Valentino begins to suck in earnest, laving his tongue over Marc’s head and drinking him down to the hilt.

The only sensations Marc registers are the wet heat around him and the finger biting into his hips. The rest of the world is static.

He’s getting close far too quickly, only spurred on when he looks down and sees the older man looking back up his blue eyes steely, almost engulfed by his blown pupils. Marc tries to gulp down the whimper in the back of his throat, his hips bucking of their own accord. Valentino hums around his dicks before pulling off with a wet pop. He smirks up at Marc.

Valentino loves Marc like this, whining, fucked out, and desperate.

He pulls himself to his feet, ignoring the way his knees pop and protest, instead pushing himself against Marc and kissing him soundly. Marc can taste himself, bitter on Vale’s tongue. He groans pitifully.

Valentino breaks the kiss, only to trail his lips across Marc’s jaw, sucking more bruises into Marc’s neck until there is almost no space left unblemished.

(Marc will pretend to be annoyed later, complaining as he secretly examines the bruises in the mirror, a pleased smile on his face.)

Marc pushes on Vale’s head.

“In me? Please?” he whines.

Valentino chuckles, “Later, Carino. We have no lube”

“I don’t care, fuck me, please Vale”
Valentino groans, the temptation rising as Marc pleads.

“No, Tesoro. I don’t want to hurt you. We do it like this for now, okay? Come on Gattino, show me how pretty you are.”

Valentino is quickly learning the best way to get reactions from Marc, to cause the younger man to become dazed and pliant like he is now. He punctuates his request by rolling his hips into Marc, gripping his ass and encouraging him to grind against Vale.

Marc does so readily, rutting them together until he is almost sobbing, squirming under Valentino’s hands. They’re both getting close. Marc makes a glorious sight in his arms, his eye wide and doe-like, his muscles clenching and unclenching as he chases release.

Vale wraps his hand around both of them, gasping at the added friction. He connects their lips again, more panting into each other’s mouths than actually kissing.

“Come on, Bambino, come for me” Valentino whispers, bucking up to chase the pleasure.

In the end, that’s what does it for Marc. He shakes and whines as he comes, his head thrown back in ecstasy, his eyes screwed up. Valentino follows soon after, pushed over the edge by the vision of Marc falling apart.

When he comes back to himself, Valentino gently washes them both, soothing hands against Marc’s body as the younger man drifts. Marc is always quiet afterwards, his head blissfully empty.

Valentino steers Marc out of the shower and deposits him onto the ledge, fetching one of the towels and wrapping it around him, watching the way the younger man curls into warmth. Vale tenderly helps Marc dry, kissing the exposed sections of skin. Once Marc is changed, Valentino focuses on himself, perfunctory, already thinking about what to cook for dinner - probably something that Marc likes. 

The younger man looks warm and content, wrapped in one of Valentino’s hoodies, too long in the sleeves, clinging more to Marc’s chest and shoulders, where it’s loose on Vale. It settles somewhere inside of Valentino, a place he’s beginning to associate with home.

*

They were right, back in Aragon, it hasn’t been easy, not by any stretch of the imagination. It took Marc two months to feel secure that Vale wouldn’t just up and leave. Even now there are moments when they both tense, waiting for the other to land a blow. Moments where it threatens to blow up in their face, a bated breath when a sharp-edged comment slips out.

Every time though, one of them stops back, unloads the gun, and lowers their fists. They use words now, communicating in soft-spoken apologies and reassuring touches.

“you’re the one who left last time”

“And I said I’m sorry amore”

“Sorry doesn't fix everything, Vale.”

A soft sigh and a light touch on the back followed.

“I know, I know. A sorry does not even begin to cover half of the things I have done. Yet I am still sorry.”

Marc looks away.

“Marc, please”

A sigh, “It is okay. I am just hurting, not angry, just a fresh wound Vale”

Valentino holds him close until it gets better and doesn’t let go, even after.

The childish avoidance from before is gone; hindsight has shown them that was not a good strategy. They still have their squabbles, occasionally digging too far, but it is better now, less vicious.

Still, Marc has to text his mum twice on the first day, just to confirm that they haven’t killed each other yet. His parents were reluctant for him to come to Italy; they are still wary, unwilling to trust Valentino as easily as Marc does, or is learning to. They cannot resist the occasional jab at the older man, comments designed to stir up guilt; Marc is dreading the day that they all have to be in the same room. Alex is just about coming around, albeit reluctantly. For now, he is content to watch on suspiciously, waiting for even a slight slip-up from Vale. Ultimately though, they just want Marc to be happy, and if that is with Vale, so be it.

As Valentino promised, they have taken every second slowly, catching up on everything they’ve missed. Valentino refused to sleep with him until Marc won in Phillip Island. Even then Marc had to beg and beg until Valentino laid him carefully onto the bed in his hotel room and took him apart slowly, carefully. Until Marc was drooling into a pillow, crying.

Afterwards, Valentino wrapped him up in his arms and held him until he came back into his body. He had picked Marc up, and washed him in the shower, taking care to press kisses against any part he could reach. He wrapped Marc in a soft fluffy towel and slept next to him until dawn broke on the following day.

It's odd for them, to take it slow when they are so used to 300kph. But it’s good. Different, but good. Soft and unhurried as they have all the time in the world. They both knew if this was going to work, it had to be different. They couldn’t make the same mistakes as before.

They owed it to themselves to at least try.

So now they spend their days in a sort of bubble; a world which other people aren’t privy to – not yet. In this world, Valentino fucks Marc gently on his bed and kisses him breathlessly in the kitchen. He whispers, ‘I love you,’ against Marc’s lips mid-kiss, into his neck when they hug, and breathes it against Marc's hair as the younger man sleeps in his arms. Valentino has a different version of Marc from the rest of humanity - one who is soft, pliant, and sweet. He loves both versions of Marc and all of him, so long as they’re his.

*

On Thursday, people begin to arrive for the race.

Marc doesn’t know why he agreed to this plan; he has basically treated himself to an undercurrent of sick nerves in his stomach for the whole day, possibly the weekend. His heart beats faster and louder every time he hears a new car pulling into the drive.

Valentino keeps Marc tucked into his side for as long as he can before he is swept up in the duties of being Valentino Rossi. Marc is embarrassed that by 9 am he is still hiding in the house. By the time Luca finds Marc, he’s a mess.

Intuitively, he knows that he’s safe, but a part of him can’t quite let go of the anxiety.  His therapist warned him that this may happen, his brain playing tricks on him, convincing him that something bad will happen. She said that it stems from what happened last time, their eventual ruin. Marc hates it.

When they eventually have to leave the safety of the house, Marc keeps his chin up, shutting down any hint of nerves or anxiety. Outwardly, he is the picture of calm indifference, inside he’s a mess. His only reassurance is Luca’s presence and the knowledge that Alex will be here soon.

Marc nods at everyone he passes, ignoring the double takes, and pretends that he knows what he’s doing as he casually loiters at the front of the house for Alex. By the time his brother pulls up, Marc is vibrating out of his skin, only relaxing once Alex has gathered him into his arms.

The plan is to act as though Marc and Alex arrived together, so they enter the foyer in tandem, greeted by an enthusiastic Valentino.

 “Marc, Alex. Allora, it is good to see you”

Marc now understands the ungodly number of espressos the older man had this morning. Alex shoots Valentino a sceptical look, bordering on unimpressed. Marc has to disguise his laughter with a cough.

As usual, it is all being filmed; the crew are eager to shove a camera in Marc’s face, their eagle eyes focused on Valentino’s hands trailing Marc’s waist when they stand together. Valentino dutifully points out which bits of merch to sign and where. He is acting more detached than Marc has seen him in a while. It burns, sour and acidic in the back of his throat.

Marc wishes they had talked about this, where they stand and who knows. It didn’t seem important to discuss before now, with too many other things to keep on track of. Marc assumes (hopes) that they can edit anything out as needed.

When the brothers have finished dutifully signing, Valentino signals for the filming to stop, shooing people away. Marc is tugged into a side room.

It’s becoming increasingly apparent that Valentino is a bit like a teenager in the way he can’t keep his hands off Marc. He draws the younger man into a kiss, pushing him against the closed door.

Marc groans when he pulls away, changing Valentino’s lips for a second before giving up, his head thunking against the door. His earlier worries are forgotten, reassured by Valentino's sweet whispers and eagerness.

“Oh, come on, my brothers out there” He whines, only pretending to be annoyed at Valentino's constant desire and enthusiasm. The older man laughs in delight and presses one last kiss to Marc’s lips.

“Sorry Amore, I can’t resist. You just look so beautiful and I do not want you to be nervous, you seem nervous”

Marc's earlier worries are forgotten, reassured by Valentino's sweet whispers and eagerness. 

“Of course I’m nervous, everyone is staring at me” Marc says flatly

“Ah well, it is probably because your ass looks good”

Before Vale can finish the sentiment, there is a loud knock on the door.

“I can hear you, you know. Please stop”

Valentino smirks, pressing one last kiss to Marc’s cheek before he opens the door and lets them out.

Alex looks mightily unimpressed.

“Now now, baby Marquez, my house, my rules.” Valentino jokes, no heat behind his tone and his eyes dancing with humour. Alex groans.

“Franco is with the boys in the garages, I hear he’s looking forward to seeing you”

The effect is immediate, Alex flushing brightly at Vale’s teasing. It makes Marc cackle. With one last tap low on Marc’s waist, Valentino is gone, back to play the entertainer to his loyal subjects. Marc watches the older man go, before turning toward Alex and dragging him toward the garage.

*

It is strange, Marc thinks, that only days ago, Marc and Vale were here alone, kissing in peaceful moments between riding, training, cooking, and living. Reacquainting with one another and deciphering how to fit into each other’s lives.

There is no peace now.

Whilst Valentino plays the gratuitous host and welcomes every guest, Marc and Alex are left abandoned amongst a sea of people hungry to know why. Marc holds his head high, portraying a sense of disinterest even as he feels a hundred curious eyes on him.

It’s not exactly a secret that Vale and Marc are back on friendly terms, with Valentino being complementary in interviews and talking to Marc in the paddock. But to see Marc at the ranch will be a shock for many. Many more will be upset.

Marc tries to remember whose stupid idea this was. Entering the biggest event Valentino has ever put on right at the start of their relationship. 10 years of the 100k di campioni. Marc Marquez is in attendance.

The headlines practically write themselves.

To make matters worse, they’ve reshuffled the teams. Marc doesn’t know whose idea it was, whether it was Valentino, one of the boys, or someone else entirely. But Valentino was adamant that they had to race together.

Marc wondered whether it was to prevent any issues when one of them beat the other. Even though they were both fine with that, others might talk.

Either way, the team announcement was delayed until it became public knowledge that Marc was in attendance. It is bound to cause a commotion.

Marc guesses that going from enemies to friendly enough to be teammates (by choice) is quite the leap. The sudden reshuffle means that Pecco pairs with Luca, Franky with Alex, and Cele and Marco are together.

Marco muttered something about it being unfair that one of the teams has 17 world championships – Valentino laughed at the time but Marc thinks Bez was being dead serious. He doubts many other people have considered that yet. It’s only a matter of time before they see the two of them on the track and realise it might be slightly unfair. Oh well.

Marc keeps his head down as he drags Alex toward the garage. He tries to swerve around the people he doesn’t want to see, keeping out of the way of cameras. It’s funny really. He knows that he’ll be in the clips anyway, but if he tries to make himself smaller or irrelevant, maybe people will talk less.

(It’s wishful thinking)

Marc lets out a sigh of relief when they make it to where Pecco is chatting with Bez on the threshold of the building.

Releasing Alex’s arm, he greets the boys fondly, ruffling Bez’s hair and clasping hands with Pecco. He has a moment of panic when he belatedly realises that Alex has never really interacted with the boys. He questions whether they will play nice after everything which has happened; especially due to Alex’s protectiveness.

The worry doesn’t last long; they greet Alex kindly, albeit with a little awkwardness. The tension dissolves when Franky approaches, falling instead into boyish teasing as he wraps an arm over Alex’s shoulder. It feels natural, almost easy. Marc exhales, the tight coil in his stomach loosening slightly.  Alex deserves happiness more than anyone he knows; Marc would do anything to keep him content.

The good-natured ribbing continues, but Franky takes it in his stride, simply pressing a kiss to Alex’s cheek and grinning smugly when he flushes. He must be used to it, growing up in this environment with these boys who are almost like family.

Pecco nudges him, subtly so the others don’t notice, content to let them continue to throw childish barbs at one another whilst he accosts Marc.

“Where’s your boyfriend?”, he teases. Marc rolls his eyes, shoving Pecco back lightly.

“Holding down the fort I believe”

Pecco huffs, an amused tilt to his lips.

The boys have taken well to him and Valentino tentatively dating, happily including Marc on race weekends. According to Vale, they have been asking for Marc to train with them at the ranch for months.

Marc feels such a swell of love for his new friends and their acceptance. It is like he has somehow adopted the children Vale has gathered over the years, in an odd way. He knows some of the younger ones admired him when they were growing up, before he and Vale imploded. It has almost come full circle, everything falling so easily into place. If Marc thinks about it, he feels this is a long time coming.

He fits in here - another teacher for the younger ones, someone who understands the pressure of being a champion and being on a bike that doesn’t love you as much as you love it. Someone who knows what it’s like to win, to lose, and to overcome the impossible.

There is a sense of belonging that Marc hasn’t felt in some time.

While the boys mess around, joking and laughing, Marc peaks his head out to look around. Hidden in the alcove of the garage, he scouts the people who are already here. He recognises some familiar faces - riders from the grid, some of the lower leagues, and one or two from different events and classes. It’s quite the lineup.

Marc shelters for as long as he can, unwilling to go out and face the music. He really wishes that he and Valentino had thought of some answers to the inevitable questions before they dived headfirst into this.

Eventually, though, his plan is foiled by Mig, who shuffles them outside, ever the leader in the academy.

“Stop being hermits and go mingle”

 Marc pouts at Mig until the younger man pats his cheek, mocking but not cruel.

“Do not be a baby, you are too old for that.”

It just makes Marc scowl, before he changes tact, going wide-eyed and innocent in the hopes of persuading the younger man to let him stay. He sees the moment Mig clocks onto what he’s doing.

“God, I see why Valentino thinks you're adorable. You have a face like a disgruntled cat, although your puppy eyes are pretty adorable”, he smirks.

Marc gapes at him whilst the others burst into rambunctious laughter.

“Ay, Mig, you were not meant to tell him that” Marco giggles

Luca smiles, “Stop flirting with Vale’s boyfriend, he will get mad, you know what he is like”

The comment confuses Marc, and he frowns. He doesn’t know what Valentino is like. It startles him, the realisation that he has no idea how Vale talks about him.

Pecco throws an arm over his shoulder, grinning as he puts on a high-pitched voice, imitating Vale.

“Allora, stop staring at him”

Cele chips in, also mimicking Vale “Marc’s so perfect. It’s so unfair”

Mig chokes out his impersonation between fits of giggles “I am definitely not jealous but I will kill you if you so much as look at Marc, even though I can’t bring myself to make it more official than the occasional coffee.”

Alex is giggling along, unaware of Franky’s awed face watching him.

Marc doesn’t know how to feel.

Bez nudges him, “We are only taking the piss, it is funny.”

“We have had to put up with the old man pining for too long,” Pecco adds

“Ah well, that is what happens when we get old. A good impression of him though.”

It comes from someone new, not one of the boys. Marc jerks, he knows that voice.

Behind Franky stands Dovi, a wide smile on his face as he observes the group, clearly privy to their previous conversation.

The boys fall silent, their gazes snapping between Marc’s shocked face to Dovi's one of amusement. Luca leaves first, excusing himself and patting Dovi’s shoulder as he goes. The others follow suit, slowly slinking away to give them some privacy.

Marc stares at Dovi in silence, stunned and unsure what to say.

It has been playing on his mind recently, the fear that he might have hurt Dovi. Even though they agreed to remain friends, he feels guilty. Dovi doesn’t deserve that pain, it isn’t fair.

“Hey, none of that. Don’t feel guilty, you two deserve happiness.” Dovi declares, tapping Marc twice on the chin.

Marc grimaces. Dovi laughs; he doesn’t look sad, or annoyed- quite the opposite, Dovi looks like he’s glowing with happiness. In fact, now that Marc thinks about it, squinting at Dovi, he does look unusually happy, less tired, brighter.  

“You’re tanned,” Marc says, changing the topic, suspicious of Dovi’s

Dovi shrugs, “Australia does that to you”

“Australia?” Marc parrots back, unable to hide his confusion.

It’s then that he hears a distinctive accented voice. He lifts his head, searching and sees Casey talking to Pecco a few feet away. His jaw drops.

Casey and Dovi are here and Vale hasn’t said a thing. He cannot begin to fathom why Valentino would invite Dovi after everything between them.  

Marc flicks his gaze back and forth between Casey and Dovi, noting how the latter's cheeks begin to redden. He grins slyly.

“Oh, ohhhhhh. Is this a new thing?” Marc asks. Suddenly a few more things make sense.

Dovi chuckles a little,

“Um, yes. Fairly. After everything that happened, y’know with you and Valentino. I had a lot of thinking to do. As it turns out, Australia is good for that. And maybe I have a type.”

“Oh, and what type is that then?” Marc pushes cheekily; he can’t help the wicked grin that slips onto his face.

“Crazy bastards who look good on motorbikes.” comes the response, not from Dovi but from Valentino who wraps his arms around Marc and rests his chin on his head.

“Hey, don’t talk about my boyfriend like that” Dovi teases.

Casey wanders over and cuffs Valentino on the shoulder in reprimand before he slings his arm over Dovi’s shoulders.

Huh, Marc thinks. He leans back in Valentino, unable to help the way he relaxes.

Looking at Dovi and Casey now, he can see they’re happy, both adoring. It’s sweet. Marc realises that he is genuinely over the moon for them both. Dovi deserves someone simpler, less messy than him. And Casey is the perfect mix of grounded and still a little unhinged.

 Even Valentino seems happy, no longer glaring at Andrea with barely concealed jealousy.

As Casey and Vale begin to bicker, he meets Dovi’s eyes, smiling wide.

Maybe things have a way of working out in the end.

*

Of course, social media blows up when the official VR46 account posts videos of Marc at the ranch. Valentino’s subsequent repost goes viral. Marc is giggling at the insanity as he lays in bed on Friday night, his head pillowed on Valentino’s chest. The boys have clearly taken it as a challenge to see who can break the internet the quickest, posting pictures they have snuck of Marc and Vale from the past three months. None of them are directly incriminating but if you look hard enough, you can see the softness in Vale’s eyes in every photo.

(Luca unofficially wins with a photo of Valentino and Marc asleep in someone’s motorhome. Not cuddled, but close enough that their hands are touching.)

Marc is still smiling as he falls asleep to the sound of Valentino's heartbeat, their legs entwined.

The weekend continues without a hitch, much to Marc’s relief. He spends most of the time mingling with the boys, sometimes being pulled into conversations with non-MotoGP riders who ask him about Ducati next year. Marc is thankful that no one asks about him and Vale, he doesn’t think they need any more drama.

Luca wins the Americana race for another year running, dominating the field. Marc giggles when Pecco hugs him for just a fraction of a second too long, eliciting whistles from Bez and Mig. The atmosphere is pleasant - laid back rather than overly competitive.

Such that, by the time the main race rolls around, Marc is enjoying himself so much that he forgets to be nervous. He has naturally fallen into the rhythm of riding here, watching as Valentino skids through the dirt, approaching the line to hand over to Marc. It’s electric, the roar of the bikes, the screaming crowd, Valentino swerving toward him, a glimpse of wild blue behind the visor.

When Marc takes over, they are already leading. Marc bears down, grinning manically as he hears Pecco hot on his tail. He throws himself into every corner, grasping for the win, catching the bike as it threatens to slip out from underneath him. He skids too hard around one corner, wrangling the bike under control just in time, letting Pecco close in next to him.

Good, Marc thinks, a real race.

They fly together through the laps, Marc edging into the lead once more, swinging his leg out for balance, his gaze laser-focused on the racing line. This is his element. He pulls away from Pecco, the speed of his cornering just too much for the younger man to keep pace.

Valentino is there, cheering as Marc thunders over the line, pulling him into a hug as he slows to a stop. The crow roars. Marc beams, flipping his visor up. He desperately wants to kiss Vale, holding himself back from jumping the older man right there and then. He settles for a knowing look shared between them as the others begin to crowd around and celebrate.

Before Marc knows it, they are being shepherded over to where a makeshift podium has been set up. They are awarded their stupid necklaces of sausages as the others watch on.

Marc stands on the top step, gazing up at Valentino next to him.

He sees a God, the man who broke his heart and is now piecing it back together again.

He sees his past, his present, and his future.

Valentino meets his gaze, “Okay, Bambino?”

Marc grins

“Yes. With you, yes – always”

Valentino glances around quickly, and shrugs helplessly, pulling Marc in. Marc laughs, gasping slightly as Vale wraps one arm around his waist and the other around the back of his neck. Marc’s hands come to rest on Valentino’s hips.

“Vale, the cameras” Marc giggles.

Valentino grins, “They can delete it, or not I don’t care. I have the greatest treasure in the world, I don’t mind people knowing that.”

Valentino presses their lips together right there, in front of everyone. Marc beams into it, delighted, there are still purple-red hickeys sitting on his neck and Valentino’s arm around his waist. It feels like home.

Marc deepens the kiss, holding Vale by the roots of his curls. Someone hoots from the crowd, followed by a loud; Marc can hear Alex laughing and Bez complaining with increasingly creative expressions. 

Fireworks go off behind them. Marc breaks away from Vale, still smiling so hard that his cheeks hurt.

“I love you”

“I love you too, amore mio"

Marc thinks he has finally found someone who will love him in spite of everything - everything that has occurred, everything to come. Someone who will cherish him no matter what he says, or how dark his secrets are. 

Marc thinks that he is home. 

*fin*