Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Marc doesn’t know how it happens, just that 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 next, 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.

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. He thinks that he loves Vale, but, well, he doesn’t know. It is difficult when you are faced with what you have always wanted, when it is finally within grasp, and you suddenly have the sickening clarity that it burns. Even worse, when Marc realises that the only reason he might get Vale is through guilt – Valentino spent a decade hating him and now, since he has seen the damage it caused, he feels remorse. Marc doesn’t want their potential relationship to be a product of guilt rather than affection. If Valentino sees him as weak, then this is pretty much pointless. A curdled dread sits like lead in his stomach- what if Valentino leaves again? It would ruin Marc, there would be nothing left afterwards.

It is unknown whether a relationship could be built on their rubble from before, the ashes of their past. Marc doesn’t know if he wants to run the risk. It hurts that only pity could bring about their reconciliation. He doesn’t want Valentino to see him so vulnerable, lest he realise Marc isn’t the one he wants.

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 anyway, he thinks.

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. 

There he goes again, thinking about Dovi. There is something categorically wrong with him today.

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, and 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 unusual to have rain showers. He says as much.

He wonders why Pecco asked so out of the blue. The younger man simply nods in assent and moves the conversation on. Marc doesn’t suppose Pecco is hoping to gain much through Marc’s prediction of the weather, so he shrugs it off.

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 had been less tired and more engaged, he might have pieced together that his brother had a hand in this.

Alex knows him better than anyone else; he 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.  

If he and Vale don’t work out, Marc wonders if the boys will still accept him. He hopes so. He isn’t sure he could bear being hated again, especially now that they all know. He sighs, wondering why he is already thinking as though he and Valentino have no chance. Conditioning, perhaps.

Someone is talking; Marc hopes it isn’t directed at him since he’s managed to zone out again. It's tiring, trying to keep up, to act normal, 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 are relaxing.

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. Marc feels a deep sense of sadness at the thought. There is something about Dovi at the moment, his feelings about the older man, that Marc can’t quite put his finger on.

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. It was only when he and Bez stormed into his motorhome in Misano. Before then, it would have been 2015—after that, Marc’s walls had been built, tall and unscalable.

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 older men). 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.

It makes Pecco feel vaguely nauseous, the way Valentino was the one who triggered Marc’s wariness, his pain. It is clear to see as they deconstruct his walls brick by brick. Pecco is sure he isn’t the only one feeling this way, judging by the look on Franky’s face.

Honestly, Pecco doesn’t think he could forgive Vale if he was in Marc’s shoes. The older man was Marc’s hero before he turned the whole world against him. Pecco was there, he vaguely remembered his horror when Vale had begun to talk to the Italian media. He wonders if, in a different time line, Vale would have done the same to him, or Franky, or Bez.

It doesn’t portray his mentor in a flattering light.

He thinks about the way Marc had instinctively relaxed the other night, surrounded by Dovi, Dani, and Jorge. He considers how easily he seemed to be with Dovi, how the older man looked at Marc like he hung the moon and the stars. Pecco purses his lips, thoughtful. Looking at Marc now, it is hard to reconcile him with the same man who was throwing up in a press conference a few weeks ago. A lot has happened, he supposes.

Pecco turns to Franky with a sigh,

“Do you think Valentino deserves Marc after all of this?” he questions.

Franky raises an eyebrow, motioning for him to continue.

“I don’t know, it’s just – insane, isn’t it? He has caused so much pain for Marc, more than we ever knew. And now he just expects Marc to take him back? I mean, I wouldn’t. If I were Marc, I mean.”

Franky hums thoughtfully; Pecco wonders if he has spoken to Alex about this already – the younger Marquez clearly disliked Vale, unsurprisingly. He tries not to imagine being in Alex’s shoes, finding his brother on the brink of death. He shakes his head, dispelling the thought before it can form.

“Not to mention- Well- the way Dovi looks at him, it isn’t exactly just friendly, right? And they have some history – we found out the other night. It just – oh, I don’t know, it would make more sense.” He rambles, unsure what he was getting at, but feeling a deep well of pity for Marc.

Franky interrupts his musing 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, distaste clear in his tone. Pecco was right then; he could tell by his boyfriend's rigid shoulders that Luca saw the same thing between Marc and Dovi. He thinks maybe he agrees about who would be better for Marc, too.

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.

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 the 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, then flicks 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 on 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.

Pecco frowns at Luca, who looks deep in thought.

When Luca quietly slips out 5 minutes later, Pecco doesn’t hesitate to join him, grasping his hand just before he can disappear into the night.

*

They find Marc, thankfully, in his motorhome. Alex is unsurprisingly there, too. It is the younger who opens the door, raising a curious eyebrow at the two, but moving aside to let them in after only a second of deliberation.

Marc looks fine, which is reassuring if a little far away. He looks up when they enter the room, smiling through his evident confusion.

“Hi”, he says quietly, a question present in his tone.

“Hi Marc”, Luca replies, returning his smile and taking the offered seat.

“I’m sorry for leaving so quickly, it was really rude of me- I just- Panicked. I think”

Pecco watches on silently as Luca smiles kindly at Marc.

“No, no. That is okay, I just wanted to make sure that you were alright. I know Vale can be a lot. Too much sometimes.”

As if sensing Marc’s discomfort, Luca jumps to change the conversation away from Vale, returning so he can face Alex too.

“Are your parents here this weekend?” Luca queries.

Pecco wonders what they are doing here; he knows that it isn’t so Luca can make small talk. They continue to exchange polite words for some time, and it’s nice, actually.

The Marquez brothers actually provide quite good company, and Pecco finds himself joining in, contributing to their conversation and giggling along to Marc’s stupid commentary about his mum’s constant worries. He wonders if all of their parents are the same – they should form a support group. He says as much aloud, which sets them all off into another round of laughter, Luca leaning into him slightly as he chuckles.

In the next lull, Luca speaks.

“You know, we won’t hate you if you don’t choose Vale?”

Marc startles, staring at Luca in confusion.

“I- what?”

“I think you know what- and who- I mean. But I mean it. Valentino has made a lot of mistakes. No one would blame you if you couldn’t forgive him”

Marc is silent for a second.

“I do forgive him”, he whispers, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

Luca smiles, slightly sadly.

“Then you are a better man than most, Marc. That doesn’t mean you have to still love him. Nor does it mean you have to date him. I just. I wonder if you need to hear that. It’s okay to be confused.”

Marc looks up with such shock in his eyes, as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing, and yet underneath there is relief. Pecco thinks maybe that is exactly what Marc needed to hear, and his heart swells for Luca. He can’t believe he got so lucky to have such an empathetic, thoughtful boyfriend – he reaches for Luca’s hand.

Marc tracks the movement, the way Luca curls his fingers around Pecco's. He sighs.

“I thought I loved him. I think I still do. It’s just. There’s so much to forgive, so many unknowns. It scares me. I’m not sure I can trust him with my heart. Not again.”

Luca hums in consideration; Pecco doesn't speak aloud, but internally, he agrees. He doesn’t blame Marc one bit.

“We won’t stop speaking to you. Or being there for you, even if Vale doesn’t like it. It's difficult, yes? There has been a rift for many years, but it'll be worse for all of us if we open it again.”

He shoots a look in Alec’s direction,

“Although Franky seems to be doing that well”

It makes the tension drop, and Marc and Alex both crack smiles. Pecco breathes harshly.

“Honestly, Marc, I think he’ll understand, or he will at some point. He needs to come to terms with it either way. He did this to himself. “

“But what if I lose him again? I don’t think I can do another decade of him hating me. Of everyone hating me”

Luca huffs. “He may be stupid, Marc, but even he isn’t stupid enough to make such a colossal mistake twice. He will let it go. He knows that he fucked up. Trust me, I am not trying to make you feel sorry for him. You should have seen him last week – I’ve never seen him so desperate.”

Marc clenches his eyes shut. Trying to will away the all-consuming guilt. Pecco wonders if Luca is telling the truth he

“It's okay to let him go, Marc. You don’t owe him anything,” Luca whispers. Pecco senses that the conversation has drawn to a close, Alex shooting him a thankful look, also eyeing up their joint hands with a small smile.

Pecco knows what’s coming before it’s said

“So, when did this happen?” asks Alex, a cheeky grin already in place.

Pecco huffs, nudging his boyfriend gently. It was only a matter of time before everyone else on the grid clicked anyway. He glances at Luca, a small smile gracing his features, wondering which of them will explain their steady route from friendship to love, which was so natural that Pecco barely even realised what was happening until he had a lap full of Luca.

Pecco and Luca leave not long after, having been suitably grilled and ribbed for their relationship. As they go, Pecco smiles at Marc; he goes for something honest, trying to convey his support without it being interpreted as pity. He follows Luca out.

Marc calls out, making them both turn in the threshold, Luca with one foot already outside.

“Thank you. Both of you. For everything,” Marc says. Pecco will never stop being intrigued by the older man.

“Whatever you chose, Marc, we'll be there this time.”

With that, they let the door shut softly behind them, shoulder to shoulder, as they treck back to Pecco’s motorhome.

Chapter Text

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 or the way his mind seemed to be rebelling against him, filling his every waking moment with thoughts of Dovi. Ever since his conversation last night, he can’t seem to get the other man out of his head.

He doesn’t know what to do. He truly believed that he loved Valentino – loves Valentino. But the trust is shattered, in pieces. Even if they managed to pick up the shards, he’s not sure that they’d be able to glue them back together into any semblance of a relationship, not without irreparable cracks and holes. Marc sighs.

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 from 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 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 that 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, his gaze falls on the man he was hoping to see.

Dovi’s warm brown eyes meet his, crinkling in the corners as he smiles at Marc. Marc’s heart clenches and stutters in his chest.

He has made his decision.

He almost trips over himself in his haste to throw himself into Dovi’s arms, shoving his face into the older man’s neck and breathing in. Content, Dovi rubs his back soothingly, whispering kindly in his ear.

When he pulls back, Dovi looks so fond, and it’s incredible because Marc isn’t even shocked by it. Dovi shows his love so openly, without shame or agenda. Suddenly, the world is in technicolour, and everything falls into place. Emotions well inside him, threatening to overwhelm him as more tears flow down his cheeks. He wants and wants, and he knows Dovi will give him everything. Dovi will hold up the world for Marc.

The older man reaches forward and echoes his dad’s movement from moments ago, brushing a stray tear off his cheek. Marc pushes his cheek into the hand, grinning when Dovi’s face goes slack. He’s glad that he still has that effect, all these years later. He remembers it well from the first time he found his way into Dovi's bed.

God, Marc wants to kiss him. He can’t help the way his eyes flick to his lips before refocusing on his eyes, which are alight with amusement. Marc flushes; clearly, he isn’t as subtle as he thought. A strong hand grips his chin lightly, preventing him from looking away in embarrassment, allowing him to see the faint heat in Dovi’s eyes.

He knows this is going to be filmed and GIFed to no end, and yet he does not care in the slightest.

He catches Alex’s eyes over Dovi’s shoulder and registers the way they are crinkled in happiness. Marc is suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude for his brother, his family, his life, and his success.

Perhaps he has been in Dovi’s arms for too long, maybe it looks weird- Marc doesn’t care.

“I’m so proud of you”, Dovi whispers.

Marc preens, his forehead brushing against the other’s as he basks in their closeness. He pulls away, just ever so slightly, enough that Dovi catches the hint and releases Marc from his arms. They smile at each other for a beat.

“Thank you”, Marc whispers. “Will I see you later?”

Dovi nods. “Of course, always. Whenever you want.”

Alex coughs loudly, pointedly. Marc laughs, spinning to face his brother and the rest of the team who are watching with knowing eyes. Marc flips Frankie the bird before he can even voice the comment that Marc knows is brewing – everyone laughs.

Over the other side of the Gresini team, beside Ducati, something catches Marc’s eyes. Valentino is there, waiting in parc-fermé, 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. Once just a fence separates them, Marc has to clench his hands into fists to contain himself. Whether it’s from throwing a punch or hugging him like 22-year-old Marc desperately wanted to.

This feels significant, Valentino seeking him out in front of all of these people. It feels like an admission, an apology.

God, Marc has always wanted this, ever since they fell out. Futile in his hopes for Valentino to reach out, to make things right, 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 the public sphere. It was followed by a stomach-wrenching, aching longing which settled for the long haul. He has repressed it for years, gritting his teeth through the pain. Every time he reached out to Valentino, his hand was so cruelly pushed away. Even now, he is waiting for the blow to land. Even since the longing has faded and the stakes feel less important, there is doubt creeping in at the edges, seeping through their hastily patched-up friendship – if it can even be called as much. Marc was not lying last night. Whatever their relationship has become, it will not be an easy fix. 

Marc is scared to meet Vale's eyes, always so bright- intelligent, sharp.

He thinks Valentino will know the minute he looks at Marc. He is terrified of the fallout.  

The paddock seems to fall quiet.

Marc’s heart is pounding. He wonders if Valentino can hear it. He squeezes his eyes shut and counts to five in his head, willing this to go well.

When he opens his eyes, a small smile greets him. Valentino is staring at him with something close to a distant acceptance. His eyes are soft, but there is an edge of uncertainty, a tinge of pain which Marc has not seen before.

Marc imagines that his choice is written all over his face; he has always worn his heart on his sleeve. Even after the promises Valentino has made, the trust has been broken for a long time. Marc knows it is too broken to be repaired.

He thinks that Vale knows it, too.

Marc can only cling to hope and pray he isn’t making a mistake.

The knowingness in Valentino’s gaze tells him that he isn’t. Neither was the love in Dovi's. It still feels a lot like letting go.

(The love in Dovi’s gives him the confidence he needs).

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, and he had become a threat. The looks turned bitter, tinted with jealousy, with annoyance.

Eventually, hatred.

There is none of that now. There is love, yes, but there is also grief, relief, and acceptance.

Marc thought Valentino would be angry. But instead, he seems to have been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Marc glances back at Dovi who, seeking comfort – some form of reassurance that this will be okay. He seeks the older man out like a lighthouse or an anchor, guiding him and keeping him safe during the storm. Dovi nods at him – a reminder of his steadfast support and smiles.

Marc returns his gaze to the other man in front of him.

“Please don’t cry, Bambino”, Valentino whispers.

“Sorry. Happy tears, I think. I’m overwhelmed.” Marc replies, his voice quiet and choked. Valentino hasn’t called him that in years; it reminds him, yet again, of being 20.

“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 and he inhales – he missed this – it all being okay.

It isn’t fixed; Marc knows that. It will never be what Marc hoped it had been once; they are too far gone for it. But maybe there is something salvageable in their relationship, maybe a tentative friendship which could one day bloom.

Valentino, as always, knows. Understands.

“Take care, yes. Tell him he must look after you.” 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, 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 hopes that they understand, that despite everything, he still wants Valentino to be there. But also, that he knows himself well enough to know there is someone else for him.

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.

“You didn’t pick him?” She whispers.

Marc shakes his head, pulls back and catches Dovi’s eyes, soft in the evening light. His mum looks between them, smiling widely.

“Ah, he always did love you – never very subtle about it either”, she hums. Marc laughs, loud and brazen, nudging her slightly. Mothers and their intuition, he thinks.

She releases him back to the chaos of the team, who 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. Dovi stands with them; his hand is warm on the juncture between Marc’s neck and his shoulder.

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 finds the familiar shape of Dovi in the crowd. He feels the tug in his heart, the incessant need to reach out. His heart feels full, beating quicker as Dovi grins up at him.

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.

He isn’t sure it would make good entertainment. Or maybe it would. But not so fun for 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 off a win whilst she was watching.

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 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. It is in moments like these that he misses Honda dearly, particularly their unwavering support. They were his family. Marc knows they will always have his back in the paddock and will always 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.

Leaving Honda was the most difficult decision Marc had ever made. He is sure that he will return one day, but for now, he must leave once again.

Marc tries to shuffle back into the Gresini garage without causing a commotion; to pretend he hasn’t just left for ten minutes to visit his old team without telling anyone. They notice, of course and yet no one makes a fuss; no one says anything. He is grateful. Someone hooks an arm around his waist before pouring a bottle of champagne on his head, making him scream in horror before bursting into uncontrollable laughter.

Marc loves this team. He adores their unwavering support. The way they recognise his strengths alongside his weaknesses, turning a blind eye to his oddities. Instead of judgment, they steep him in champagne and love. They party with him and match his energy with loud laughter and stupid dancing.

It is now his home.

As he is wiping at his eyes, trying to remove the sting of champagne, he notices Dovi. He isn’t sure when he got there, but he’s loitering in the corner, a pleased smile on his face as he watches the shenanigans. Marc's mum wanders over to him; she pats Dovi's and pulls him down to speak in his ear. Dovi grins at the message, and even from here, Marc can see the slightly pink tint to his cheeks. It piques his interest – Dovi is usually unflappable. The older man nods, his face turning serious as they talk. He raises his eyes, meeting Marc's gaze, eyes widening slightly but eventually breaking into a breath-taking grin.

Marc smiles back, darting through the team to make his escape towards the back of the garage. His mum kisses his cheek when he arrives,

“Be good", she teases in Catalan before re-joining Alex in the crowd.

Marc tugs Dovi's arm, pulling him further into the garage in the hope of more privacy. They fall still at the same time, staring at each other. Marc has the fleeting realisation that he doesn’t know what to say. He goes to speak, stops. Starts again, clearing his throat.

“I’m really glad you made it.” He chokes, unsure how to verbalise the immense feelings inside of him. Unsure if it is even possible.

“A promise is a promise”

Marc wonders if Dovi too is struggling for words. The older man frowns, tips his head before his face settles into something akin to pride or adoration, which softens his features.

“It is always worth it to watch you race. You never fail to be impressive – otherworldly. The way you kept them behind on the first lap was incredible,” Dovi gushes.

Marc huffs out as laugh, “You're really going to talk about the race, huh?”

It is usually Marc who avoids talking about feelings, who focuses on racing instead. He guesses that the tables have turned.

Dovi cocks his head, drawing his arms over his chest and emphasising the muscles there. Marc is not immune, eyes falling to the strong lines of his arms and torso. He shakes his head and tears his gaze away – he’s trying to have a serious conversation here.

Dovi looks amused. The bastard definitely did that on purpose.

“Well, what did you want to talk about, Marc?”

Marc groans, rolling his eyes to the heavens. Why can’t this just be easier? Did everything have to be a riddle of confusing emotions? He voices the thought aloud, startling a laugh out of Dovi.

“You always have been dramatic"

“Yes, and according to my mum, you’ve always been in love with me.”

Dovi freezes slightly before he relaxes, dropping his shoulders.

“Your mum knows too much. Come on, Marc, I’m too old for this. You know how I feel about you. You do not make it easy.”

Marc grins. “Easy is boring”

“Easy is good at my age"

“You talk like you are old"

“I am old!”

“Ah, it is a good thing that I like my men older then"

Dovi chokes and then pauses. He looks at Marc, properly, searching his face to find what he is looking for, and he gulps.

“I am not sure I can be with you for just a night. Don’t get me wrong, it was fun back then. But I need something real, I want something real. With you.”

Marc smiles brightly. He does not need words to convey what comes next. Instead, he grasps the back of Dovi's neck and presses their lips together. He does not have to lean up or work for it, instead, it is as easy as breathing.

Dovi's hands scramble for purchase, one landing on his waist and the other on the side of his neck. Marc tries to pour all his feelings into the kiss; it is easier to convey his love and devotion this way. He urges Dovi back against the wall, biting at his bottom lip as he withdraws.

The older man is panting, looking at Marc with awe and some confusion. Marc giggles and pushes their foreheads together, pecking Dovi's lips, once, twice and then twice more in quick succession – four kisses for his number four.

When Marc pulls away for a second time, Dovi’s gaze is fixated on Marc like he’s the centre of the universe.

Marc grins back, drawing them back together, again and again until he loses track of time.

They rejoin the team ten minutes later, looking a little worse for wear.

(Dovi had groaned when Marc dropped to his knees but pointedly dragged him back to his feet – something about the right place and right time. Apparently, Dovi was a fan of first times being special.)

(Marc promptly reminded him that it would be at least their fourth time, but Dovi pressed his fingers to Marc’s lips – silencing him until Marc sucked the offending digits into his mouth, laving them with his tongue.)

(Dovi’s eyes rolled back and Marc whined when the older man pulled his hand away with an obscene ‘pop’).

(Marc didn’t care too much since Dovi kept kissing him after, silencing any protests).

Alex rolls his eyes when he sees them return, taking in Marc's mused hair and their swollen lips. He mimes gagging, which sets Marc off into bouts of joyful, belly-deep laughter and draws the attention of the room. A few pairs of eyes widen at the scene; Marc giggles before remembering that he and Dovi still have their hands interlinked.

 Whoops.

Rosa tuts threateningly, “I said to behave"

“Sorry, Mama”, Marc replies sheepishly. Dovi chuckles but promptly shuts up at Julia's assessing glance. Shit.

“Well, I guess that secret is blown", Alex laments. Both of their parents turn their glares to the younger.

Marc grins, all teeth, as delight swells inside him. His parents’ admonishments do not last long, not when they are watching the scenes that transpire before them. Both of their sons are excelling and happy in the premier class of the sport they love – despite every setback that has been thrown their way.

There were times when they thought that they could not continue, that it was too much for Marc and the family. Julia considered pulling them both from the sport and out of the limelight. But Marc always persisted; even when he was harassed by the press and ostracised by his colleagues, he kept his head down and pushed.

When Marc’s family stood outside his hospital room - once from his own efforts, and again after the countless surgeries which almost ruined his career – they almost gave up. And yet, still, Marc preserved. Julia and Roser could not be prouder of both of their sons. Every trial they faced in this sport was worth it for the happiness it brought. If that is what was meant to happen, then so be it, so long as they have their boys smiling and laughing at the end.

(They could forgive the occasional transgression).

Roser pulls them in, wrapping both of her children in a tight hug as Julia joins from the other side, pressing a kiss to Marc and then Alex’s hair. Around the family, the team continue their celebration, Dovi amongst them.

(It appears that they have chosen to simply accept Dovi as an honouree member of the Gresini garage.)

(Marc thinks that someone will panic when they remember that he tests for Yamaha.)

Marc cannot fathom a more perfect end to the weekend surrounded by his team, his family, and the one he loves. His stomach aches from laughter, and his jaw begins to twinge from smiling too hard. Marc is intimately familiar with pain – he knows this is the best kind.

He joined Gresini to enjoy racing again; he didn’t think he would find a family. The last decade in this sport has been incredibly tough, and yet he regrets nothing. Being here, surrounded by so much love and joy, makes every sacrifice worth it.

Marc is soaked and sticky by the time he and Dovi leave, 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.

Marc drops his head low as they enter the pit lane from the raucous garage. He is desperate to not be delayed or noticed as he hurriedly pulls Dovi towards the security and privacy of his motorhome, barely resisting the urge to kiss him in the middle of the paddock.

Dovi presses against him when they reach the door, crowding against his back and making the hairs on the back of Marc’s neck stand on end. He shudders through a breath, fighting to keep his hands steady as he presses the key into the lock.

The older man backs off, giving Marc room to unlock the door, leading them both into the motorhome and shutting it behind them, twisting the lock.

Marc hums as Dovi wraps his arms around his waist from behind, pressing his lips to the curls atop Marc’s head and reeling him in.

A shiver consumes him as Dovi peppers open-mouthed kissed across his neck, toward the black undershirt he’s wearing. It feels too good, and Marc wonders if now is the right place and time or if Dovi will insist on slow and steady.

He leans into the attention, sighing as Dovi nudges him towards the sofas, fully intending to press them together once they are both situated. Only, once Marc is down, sprawled out on the cushion, does Dovi not follow, instead shooting Marc a soft grin and padding over to the kitchen with a question called over his shoulder.

“Coffee?”

Marc groans, standing up and stretching before admitting defeat. Dovi can have it his way. He agrees quietly, presses a sloppy kiss to the older man’s cheek and heads for the bathroom because if they aren’t having sex, he might as well use the time wisely.

When Marc leaves the bathroom, 10 minutes later, freshly showered and clean of the sweat and champagne of the race, Dovi is sitting on the sofas with two mugs of coffee and a serious look on his face.

A soft exhale escapes Marc’s lips. Dovi looks unfairly beautiful like this – even with his lips pulled into a straight line. Marc wishes that they could skip the talking and go straight for the good stuff.

But alas.

Two adult conversations in one day feel like a bit much. Marc knows communication is important, but it seems a little excessive, no? He’s never liked talking; he’s more of a doing man – usually the think later kind. Marc sighs – best to get this over with.

His footsteps alert Dovi to his presence, and Dovi turns to face Marc, beckoning him over with a pat of the seat next to him.

Marc drops onto the plush sofa, well-loved and worn, but comfortable all the same. He accepts the mug Dovi hands him and tucks his feet under the other man’s thighs, grinning at the huff it procures.

Marc sips the coffee, savouring its warmth where it is cradled in his hands.

The silence is thick. Dovi breaks it first.

“You need to tell me what we’re doing here, Marc. Because I don’t want to take a guess and have it wrong. That’s not fair to anyone.”

Marc rubs his jaw, resisting the urge to bite at his thumbnail and instead pressing his fingers tight against his lower lip. Dovi’s eyes track the movement as Marc shifts from foot to foot, waiting for the older man to continue.

“I know you said this wasn’t casual for you and I know you’ve had the shittiest two weeks imaginable. But I want to make sure this is right for both of us. It’s too important to me to fuck it up. So, what do you want?”

Marc nods in agreement. He doesn’t think he could cope if this fell apart – it is another ballgame to lose your dear friend in a failed relationship. But Marc wants this more than words can express; he tries to verbalise it

“I want more- More than what we are” Marc tries, pausing as he tries to get his thoughts in order. He inhales and exhales.

“Everything that you are willing to give me. Your love, your support, all of you. If you’ll have me.”

Dovi snorts, “stupid question – who wouldn’t have you?”

Marc raises an eyebrow, thinking about the years when a certain man definitely didn’t want him- much to Marc’s dismay.

Dovi clears his throat.

“Sorry. Let me rephrase. What sane person wouldn’t want you?”

Marc chokes a laugh in response, smirking at Dovi as he responds.

“Would you call yourself sane?” he asks.

Dovi grins back, “Define sane – potentially not.”

Marc laughs properly then, lamenting on how easy this is. It has never been like this before. His thoughts drift, rehashing Dovi’s words, turning them over in his mind. He sobers.

“What makes you think it’s different for me? Why do you think that I wouldn’t want you fully?” Marc asks.

Dovi hums, “Valentino”

Marc’s next exhale is harsh. He takes some steadying breaths.

“You know. I thought I loved it. Maybe I did. I don’t know how long for. But it’s impossible to forgive and forget some things – impossible to fully heal. I will always bear the scars he has given me, making it impossible to build anew.”

He looks at Dovi, truly looks and finds everything he wants staring back.

He settles his mug on the table; Dovi follows suit, allowing Marc to grasp his hands, pressing their palms together and intertwining their fingers.

Valentino and he were like a blazing star, bright and all-consuming, burning through the atmosphere faster than you could blink, before they imploded. They left a black hole in their wake, which consumed all the good that was once theirs, swallowing them out of existence.  

Dovi is different, he is like the north star – bright and glorious but less of a spectacle. Constant and unyielding- no matter the weather. Even when not visible, it is always there, glowing in the north of the sky, nestled alongside the other constellations.

Marc thinks that he needs a north star in his life. Someone to guide him and look after him. To be that constant presence, to ground him in reality and orientate him when it all becomes too much. Dovi is that for him.

He is Marc's constant – his north.

Marc presses his forehead to Dovi’s. Together, they inhale and exhale the same air, their lips brushing.

“I want everything you are willing to give me, Andrea. Your love, your life, your kindness and your devotion. And in return, I will give you all that is mine, all that I can. You are my north. I want you by my side always,” Marc explains, his tone hushed, emotions cracking the words, bleeding through his walls.

One of Dovi’s hands cradles the side of Marc’s face – instinctively. Both of Marc’s hands moved to tangle around the back of Dovi’s neck, his fingers fiddling with the fine hairs there.

“Of course,” replies Dovi.

“Of course, Marc. Always. You have all of me already. I will always be here. And to have you is an honour.”

He breathes in Dovi’s scent, grounds himself in it. Marc lets himself imagine waking up next to this, soft sunlight streaming in as he’s curled up next to Dovi. He smiles.

“Do you want to know a secret?” Marc whispers against his lips.

Dovi gulps and nods, brushing the curls off of Marc's forehead with the hand that isn’t cupping his cheek.

Marc smiles.

“It’s you. I think it's always been you.”

Dovi exhales against his lips, and Marc can’t help it. He tugs the older man in and finally presses their lips together again.

There are no fireworks, but it feels as though somewhere deep inside him, something slots into place. It is as if something which has been broken for a long time has finally been fixed.

Looking towards the future, Marc is blinded by the light. He knows that he will always be loved and cherished. That there will be a constant presence, security and devotion in his life, holding him steady through the roughest of seas. He knows Dovi will protect him and be there by his side when he needs it most. Because he’s already shown Marc again and again.

Dovi has loved Marc through his darkest secrets, and now, he will love him through his brightest years.

Marc kisses Dovi as if he needs it to live, he thinks that maybe he does.

And Dovi kisses back.

He always will.

*FIN*

Chapter Text

It's sunny in Madrid, even though it’s January. The sun breaks through the haze of cloud which have collected on the horizon and spills down across the hillside. It peaks through the curtains in Marc’s bedroom, scattering strips of golden light on the two sleeping forms amongst the white sheets of the king-sized bed.

Marc’s tousled curls just peak above the covers from where he’s curled up in Dovi’s arms, which wrap around his waist. The light touches their entwined forms, turning their skin golden in the morning glow.

Dovi always says that Marc looks most beautiful like this – peaceful and young in his sleep. Potentially only beaten by the sight when the beauty when his face is alight with infectious laughter, or when his head his tossed back mid moan, his thighs tensed as he cums.

(Okay, Dovi always thinks that Marc always looks gorgeous, but still)

When the sun eventually peaks its head over the hills, the two wake up, moving in tandem through their morning routine. It has become habitual by now:

Shower (together), skincare (Marc), and coffee by the pool in Marc’s ridiculously expensive, concrete house.

(Dovi has been slowly trying to inject some life into the place. Scattering his oddities and trophies around as he gradually moves in. Marc never officially asked, but it's kind of happened anyway. Although Dovi keeps his house in Italy, for convenience more than anything, with both of them in the country regularly.

Afterwards, they return to the kitchen and cook side by side –  eggs, with fresh juice and more coffee – sometimes Dovi makes Marc sit down whilst he cooks pancakes, because of course he’s a good cook. They move about with the familiarity of two people deeply in love. Soft touches to the other's lower back as the plates are retrieved from cabinets or milk is fetched from the fridge. Marc becomes distracted by kissing Dovi whilst he’s halfway through cooking the eggs.

(The burn a little, but Dovi kisses away his apologies and promises that he prefers them like that.)

They eat breakfast while talking softly, only having eyes for each other as the day spills out before them. Time is syrupy here, the quiet tick of the clock drawn out.

They rinse the dishes and stack the dishwasher in tandem, the only sound is the splash of the water and the quiet hums from the older man.

When they have finished, Marc presses his lips to Dovi’s, revelling in the answering drawn-out groan. Dovi’s hands find Marc’s waist, and he melts into the touch. Dovi tastes like coffee; the good stuff he bought in Italy last time he was home.

When they eventually disentangle themselves from each other, Marc slips off the counter and presses one last chaste kiss to Dovi’s lips before he disappears into their bedroom. Marc has to work out and maybe call the team later. His schedule is getting busy as he gears up for the new season, a new team.

Dovi also has some work to do, mainly because he’s a workaholic. Marc constantly moans at him for it, reminding him that he’s retired. He’s supposed to be doing a whole load of nothing, just fucking Marc a lot. But Dovi says he’d go insane without work, especially without riding. Plus, as Marc had pointedly been reminded, they couldn’t constantly have sex. So, Dovi has some team calls to make, a sponsorship or two to sort out.

He joins Marc for the workout, which is ultimately futile as he prefers to watch the way the muscles of his boyfriend's body shift and ripple. Before distracting Marc from his set by pushing him up against the wall and kissing him soundly.

(The benefits of a home gym).

They spend their afternoon by the pool – Dovi reading and Marc analysing data until one or both of them get bored. Marc sets his laptop aside, shoving the piles of print-offs underneath before stretching his body taut.

Dovi doesn’t pretend that he isn’t staring, just laughs when his boyfriend flushes a pretty pink.

It’s not warm, but Marc insists on getting into the pool anyway, thankful that he can keep it heated all year round. Dovi watches as Marc strips off his shirt and wades into the water. Marc submerges, conscious of Dovi’s eyes, admiring the way water droplets roll down his pecs when he breaches the surface.

He preens, and Dovi giggles at him, splashing him with water as he too enters the pool.

Making his way over to Marc, he reflects on how lucky he is to have Marc like this, completely at ease. The way his back muscles shift makes Dovi’s mouth turn dry. When he reaches Marc, he wraps his arms around him from behind, pressing his lips to the side of his neck, eliciting a soft whine from Marc. Dovi spins the younger man around, pushing him up against the wall and slotting his thigh between Marc’s legs. Marc groans, deep and guttural, weakly grinding against Dovi as he connects their lips.

The kiss is filthy, all tongue and teeth as Dovi leans into Marc’s space. Neither of them gives an inch. Dovi bites Marc’s lower lip, sucks in into his mouth. Marc gasps, and Dovi uses the opportunity to kiss him harder, slipping his tongue into the younger man’s mouth.

Dovi pulls away with one final nip to Marc’s lip. He tries to chase, but Dovi nudges him away, using one hand to pin his hips to the wall. When Marc opens his eyes, there is a smirk on the other man’s face.

“Come on, we have to go shower and change, we have the dinner reservation, remember?” Dovi declares.

Marc groans, “We could cancel”

“Nuh-huh”, Dovi grins, “I promised you that I would treat you right, and that means nice dinners”

Marc tries to fight it, pushing their hips flush together as he leans up to draw Dovi back into a kiss. Dovi moans into it, licking into Marc’s mouth before trailing soft kisses across Marc’s and down his neck. He bites Marc's earlobe, tugging it gently between his teeth. Marc leans into the feeling, beginning to lose his tethers to reality, sinking into the pleasure.

Until Dovi, the bastard, licks into his ear. Purposefully breaking the moment and ruining Marc’s plan to keep him here so they can fuck instead of going to dinner.

“Gross”, Marc complains, but he can't help the small giggle that escapes.

Dovi grins, swatting Marc’s arse and hauling himself out of the pool, wrapping himself a towel before traipsing through the screen doors and towards the bedroom, leaving a trail of water behind him.

The date is everything Marc has dreamed of – quiet and low-key but filled with warmth. They eat at a local restaurant – the owners know Marc well. They hold hands on the way back, Marc’s large ones engulfing Dovi’s as they chuckle at each other’s stupid jokes.

Dovi and Marc fall into bed in the evening, glowing in each other’s company.

Marc clambers on top of the older man, sitting atop his thighs and grinning down. He leans down, connecting their lips in something slow and gentle, Dovi’s hand on the side of his face, guiding (as always). Marc rolls his hips experimentally; the gentle friction makes him whine high in his throat. Dovi’s hands fall to his hips, gripping tightly, pulling flush and encouraging him to continue.

Marc thinks there will be finger-shaped bruising decorating his hip bones. He groans at the thought, already feeling fuzzy. Marc keeps kissing Dovi, pushing his tongue against his teeth until the older man relents and lets them make out messily like teenagers. Dovi paws at his shirt, trying to shift Marc backwards so he can get rid of it. When Marc doesn’t respond, he grips the roots of his brown curls, tugging harshly to move his head, making Marc moan. Pleasure and pain spark down Marc’s spine as he submits the Dovi’s pushing and pulling, letting him strip them both of their t-shirts in a split second before trailing a hand over Marc’s abs, gazing at the younger man in awe.

From that point onwards, Marc is gone.

Dovi nudges Marc’s thighs further apart, one of his hands cupping Marc through his boxers. He thrusts into sensation, his head tipped up to the ceiling and eyes screwed shut. Dovi thinks he looks gorgeous.

In one swift movement, he flips their position, laying Marc on his back underneath him.

“Fuck” breathed Marc, his eyes glazed over. Dovi grins.

He kisses Marc soundly before leaning over and rummaging in the bedside drawer, producing a bottle of lube from the clutter. With some effort, he manages to fully undress Marc and then himself, unashamedly eyeing his boyfriend up as he does so.

Marc blinks at him hazily as Dovi slicks up a finger and urges his legs wider, kissing down the younger man’s stomach before settling in between his spread legs.

He takes Marc into his mouth as he pushes the first finger in, giving Marc a second to adjust before slowly thrusting it in and out again, revelling in the moans which spill from his mouth. Dovi licks the underside of Marc’s dick from base to tip and pushes a second lubed finger in, scissoring them slightly and pumping them in and out. Marc begins to writhe beneath him, torn between thrusting up into the wet heat or back onto Dovi’s fingers.

Dovi loves to watch him like this, falling apart. He mouths at Marc’s tip and crooks his fingers, searching until Marc’s movements stutter and a long, drawn-out whine fills the air. Dovi repeats the movement, once, twice, watching the way Marc grinds down, his mouth falling open in silent pleas. He takes pity, briefly removing his fingers before pushing three back in, fascinated by the choked-off sounds it elicits and the way Marc’s fingers grapple for purchase on the sheets. He swallows Marc down in sync with a particularly accurate thrust of his fingers. Marc cries out, loud and uncaring.

His hips are thrusting messily and out of sync. Dovi can tell that he’s close.

Marc looks truly out of it now, barely reacting as Dovi pulls off him and gently eases his fingers out; the only sign that he notices is the twitches of discomfort and the low whine.

Dovi slicks himself up quickly, stroking himself a few times as he watches Marc – the rapid rise and fall of his chest and his golden skin in the moonlight.

“Marc”, Dovi whispers, but he gets no reaction.

“Amore, look at me” It takes a second, but Marc blearily blinks his eyes open, his pupils blown so wide that his eyes look black.

Dovi swallows hard.

“I’m going to fuck you know, yes? Is that okay?”

Marc doesn’t look up for speaking, he taps his hand against Dovi’s twice, their non-verbal go-ahead. Dovi catches his hand, entwining their fingers and bringing it above his head, pinning it there as he lines up.

Dovi pushes in slowly, stopping halfway to allow Marc a second, only for the younger man to thrust his hips up, bringing them flush together in a way that makes Dovi groan.

“Fuck, you feel so good”

Marc urges him to move in response.

Dovi goes slow and steady, fucking into Marc so deeply that they both see stars. When Marc begins to claw at the sheets again, Dovi pins that hand above his head as well, immobilising the younger man. He knows Marc likes it like that.

Dovi sucks a row of bruises across Marc’s collarbones, his thrusts beginning to lose their rhythm as Marc’s moans reach a higher pitch. Dovi lets go of Marc’s hands, instead gripping one of his thighs, almost folding him in half to shift the angle. Sweat beads on his forehead, the only sound in the room their heavy breathing and the obscene slap of their skin. Every thrust hits the spot which makes Marc arch off the bed, his toes curling. Dovi won’t last much longer, he knows that Marc won’t either. He connects their mouths in a messy kiss, which is more teeth than much else and snakes a hand around Marc, jerking only twice before Marc is spilling over his stomach with a loud cry. Dovi follows as Marc clenches around his dick - enough to push him over the edge.

Dovi collapses, completely spent, as he lies beside Marc, careful not to crush him as the aftermath of pleasure rolls through him. He presses a kiss to Marc’s hair.

When he feels like he can stand without falling over, he grabs a wash cloth from the ensuite, carefully wiping them both down before chucking it into the wash bin. He coaxes Marc into having a drink of water before holding him close.

“You okay?” he murmurs, worried that the younger man hasn’t spoken yet.

Marc hums a pleased smile on his face. Dovi kisses him.

“More than” Marc eventually replies, his words slurred and sleepy

Eventually, they fall asleep, not curled together yet, both valuing their space as they drift off. But they will gravitate together during the night and most likely wake up in each other’s arms again.

That is life for Marc now.

Every day feels soft and calm – Marc wouldn’t have it any other way. He feels happy and confident in his ability this year. There is a fire burning lowly in his belly, one that he once thought was extinguished. He is eyeing his ninth title with a growing assurance, determined to put the doubts to bed for good.

The best thing about it is that Dovi will be with him at the races, by his side during every crash and lifting him up after the many podiums. He will be by Marc’s side through it all, pulling him into hugs and kisses and making him feel like the luckiest man in the world.

When he can’t make the races, Marc knows Dovi will be watching and cheering from home. Always supporting him, no matter what.

*

The months following Aragon were simultaneously the toughest of his life and some of the most joyful.

The fallout of the whole medical records issue was absolute hell.

For the next couple of races, it was the only thing Marc was asked about during media duties. It seemed that nothing would make it go away – no matter how often Marc told them ‘No comment’ or the team asked for privacy. Honestly, Marc became bored of the same old questions, it was out there on the internet for people to see, no matter how much damage control had been attempted, what more was there to ask?

Alongside the interrogations from journalists, there was an ongoing investigation into how it had happened. Marc tried to stay out of it; he wasn’t even keen to press charges. He knew people had lost their jobs, and couldn’t bring himself to feel much about it. It was probably a good thing, nobody should be able to be bribed into fucking with confidential documents, but the damage was done. Bitterness sat under Marc’s tongue. He knew who those people aligned with, but he brushed it aside, reminding himself that Valentino hadn’t known. Holding grudges wasn’t worth it. Valentino had done it for a decade, and it only brought pain.

Eventually, in Qatar, all the chaos died down. Thanks to the work of Marc’s lawyers, people stopped debating Marc’s past and began discussing his on-track performance instead. But it had already left lasting scars on Marc’s image and his psyche.

The kind of damage that meant that he had been convinced to see his therapist again. He had to admit it was nice to have someone to talk to. It was getting easier every day to come to terms with what happened.

Thankfully, all of the bullshit was compensated by Dovi.

Being with him was as easy as breathing – he was a lungful of fresh air. There wasn’t a day that passed that Marc didn’t feel loved and cherished. Dovi helped him through the tough times, when the media were hounding him and his brain wouldn’t shut up. Just knowing that he would return to Dovi’s arms after a bad day made it all better.

In the beginning, after Aragon, they eased into the relationship, both of them concerned about rushing something so precious. Dovi sometimes visited Marc at races, cheering from his garage. If not, he sent Marc pictures of the TV coverage from where he sat watching on the sofa. In between races, he occasionally travelled back to Madrid with Marc and spent the week looking soft and content in Marc's home.

Marc took to wearing Dovi’s hoodies, breathing in his soothing scent as Dovi cooked them breakfast and Marc filled mugs with steaming coffees. They sat outside whilst they ate, speaking about all of the things they’ve missed – reacquainting with each other.

Dovi was good for him; everybody could see it. He held Marc in his arms, forced him to rest, fed him well and made love to him.

When Marc’s arm ached, Dovi fed him painkillers, coaxing him even when Marc was unsure. He massaged the muscles until the stiffness faded slightly. On the really bad days, when the rain came down and his arm screamed in pain, Dovi held him through it, pressing kisses to his hair and whispering sweet nothings until he fell asleep.

Dovi developed a habit of slotting himself behind Marc when the younger had immersed himself in work or training. He kissed the younger's neck until he became distracted from his work and began tipping his head to the side to give Andrea more access.

(Dovi adored it)

Marc has a vivid memory of the first time that Dovi had finally given in to Marc’s insistent pleading to just fuck him. It started like that – Marc poring over data for hours until Dovi decided that enough was enough. He drew Marc in and made him forget every thought of apexes, bikes, or racing by dropping to his knees. Afterwards, Dovi picked Marc up and carried him to the bedroom; he took him apart a second time, using his fingers until Marc was moaning and squirming beneath him. When Dovi finally, finally pushed in, he kissed Marc’s shoulders, whispering sweet nothings into his skin. Stars exploded beneath Marc’s eyelids when he moved, loud cries and pleas falling from his mouth. Dovi halted his movements to capture his lips in a kiss before pulling away, smiling lewdly. On his next thrust, he joked about how everyone knew Marc would be loud, about how they were right, they knew he would moan Dovi’s name – Marc shuddered at the thought, whined high in his throat. He didn’t last long after that -neither of them did. They tumbled over the edge one after another and collapsed in a pile whilst they caught their breath. Dovi cleaned them up carefully, kissing Marc’s skin as he went, delighting in the worship he undertook.

It was a fond memory.

They spent almost the whole winter break together. Dovi took Marc to the slopes to practice for the Ducati launch, whilst Marc booked a holiday to the Caribbean, determined to get his dose of vitamin D (and Dovi shirtless). Whilst they were away, Dovi saw a side of Marc that he had never seen, carefree and youthful as he enjoyed the sun, sand, and sea.

In between, they lived in each other’s houses, filled with soft and quiet moments. Dovi loved how Marc curled up and fell asleep on the furniture, a blanket pulled up to his chin. He took to documenting every one of these moments, snapping photos which would inevitably end up on Marc’s Instagram, much to the delight (and confusion) of the fans.

Dovi had also thoroughly charmed Marc’s entire family – his parents were delighted with the couple, much to Alex’s amusement. They fawned over the way Dovi treated Marc and constantly invited him to family dinners. When Alex was home, the brothers would sit on the sofa together, gaming, watching football, and being silly whilst Dovi watched on fondly. He just fitted in, like the missing jigsaw piece in Marc’s life.

They often rode together, dirt biking and taking long rides on country roads. Dovi took Marc to his track, and Marc repaid the favour in Madrid, showing him all his favourite training spots. They rode together for hours, racing lap after lap under the winter sun. At the end of the day, they took their helmets off to reveal matching grins. After, they would return home to hot showers and tranquil evenings filled with good food and wine, often dozing together on the sofa whilst Netflix played on the TV.

On one of the quiet nights, after returning from Cuba, Dovi turned to him with a serious look on his face.

“Why didn’t you tell the media that Valentino’s team, or I guess his supporters, were behind the leak?” he asked.

Marc had frozen for a second, contemplating his answer, swallowing down his emotions. He thought long and hard, cleared his throat and met Dovi’s eyes.

“I know what it’s like to have your life ruined by the media”, he said, and that was that.

Marc spoke to the academy boys more now - ironically, they actually got on quite well. Marc now had significantly more friends on the grid, eliciting much confusion from the media. It made the races much more interesting, with a lot more content in the paddock. Either way, Marc didn’t complain, it was nice to have the others around – he liked Luca’s quiet companionship, Bez’s loyalty and Pecco’s steadfastness. Franky and Alex were disgusting, as expected. It kept things exciting. With Pecco being his teammate next year, he expected more interaction with them all, Valentino included. Valentino and he were civil, acquaintances maybe. They had spoken a little bit since Aragon, it wasn’t much, but they were getting there, moving past the bitter hatred which fuelled their relationship for many years.

As Dovi was cooking dinner that night, Marc thought about their relationship. He observed the easy way Andrea carried himself, the casual softness encased in firm masculinity.

Marc hummed, “When did you know that you liked me?”

Dovi laughed. If only it were that simple.

“I had feelings for a while, I think, but you loved Rossi, so I ignored them, friendship is better than nothing, no?”

Marc smiled sadly; it spoke volumes that he would go through all of that pain for friendship. He pressed a careful kiss to Dovi’s cheek, cataloguing the way the older man’s face lit up with a smile, his eyes crinkling in delight. Marc would do anything to keep that smile.

Anything at all.

*

Marc spends a lot of time thinking about the future, about their future together.

But for now, the sun dawns on the horizon, painting the world golden, spilling across the hills and valleys. It seeps through the window panes, casting the room orange.

Two figures lay in bed in Madrid, entwined in a lover’s embrace.