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“How are you holding up?” Pecco threw his gloves at him and dropped into his seat with a sigh.

Marco threw the offensive object back with twice the strength, making his friend yelp. “The bikes are good,” he answered lightly, drumming his fingers rhythmically on the armrest of his plastic chair. Pecco carded a hand through his sweaty hair and gave him the stink eye.

“I was not talking about the bikes,” he grumbled and threw his glove back at him with a pitcher's stance. It hit Marco right in the face, and he hissed at the slap of the hard material.

“Cazzo, you asshole! What are you talking about, then?” He sniffed at the other man, throwing his leg forward and tripping Cele, who was walking towards his own seat. The younger man fell forward with a scream.

“Bez! You absolute bastard!” Cele cried out and went to hit him with his hand, only for Marco to trip him again.

“I'm talking about your summer break, Bez!” He said, exasperated. “We have not heard from you at all since the last race.”

Marco winced.

“I was busy,” he muttered, turning to look at his resting bike and fiddling with his sleeves. What was he supposed to say to that? ‘Sorry, Pecco. I was too embarrassed to face you all?’ or maybe ‘Sorry, Pecco. I had sex with Marc Márquez and it felt so good I had to take a vacation?’ Yeah, right. Like that would go smoothly. Pecco would laugh at him.

His friend gave him a disbelieving look. “No, you were not. You're a terrible liar, Bez. I thought we told each other everything?” He said, sounding almost wounded. Marco turned to glare at him.

That manipulative bastard. Whoever said Pecco wouldn't hurt a fly was dead wrong. He was actually a pain in Marco's ass.

“I hate you,” Marco spat, giving him the finger. “I was doing fine. Spent some time with Rubik, trained a bit. Like normal,” he answered moodily. He knew what Pecco was trying to ask; his friend had been bombarding him with texts since the beginning of the break, asking the same question every time.

“...and?” Pecco looked at him knowingly.

“...and I have been thinking about Marc, yes. Are you happy now?” He hissed quietly. The last thing he wanted was to be heard by Cele sulking a couple of metres away. Or worse, by Valentino, who was talking to Mig near the entrance of the garage.

Pecco was trying to kill him in front of a live audience.

“Did something happen between you two? Marc was acting weird the day after the race,” he said, and Marco unknowingly gave a lurch forward at the Spaniard's name. Something in his chest started burning painfully at the word.

“We talked, it was nice. Then it was the break. Nothing more,” he felt bad lying to Pecco, but no one could know about this, not even his best friend. Right now, the Ducati rider simply believed Marc was interested due to his good results in previous races. He also thought that Marco had a crush and was too much of a wimp to act on it.

(Little did he know.)

He wanted to keep this between Marc and himself. No one else. Marco didn't know what this whole thing was exactly, but it felt so fragile that mentioning it out loud might just break it permanently.

But it was hard. Even now, all he wanted was to talk about the other man; to question the people around him about his habits and his complicated mind.

He wanted to know why Marc left his own motorhome while Marco was still asleep, slipping out with his luggage silently enough that he had slept through it. He had woken up early and reached for a body beside him, only to find emptiness and remnants of warmth in the sheets. The Italian had ended up sneaking out to his own home early enough not to be spotted, hundreds of questions swimming in his head.

Why had Marc left without leaving even a note? Marco didn't know. It was gnawing at him every single minute of the day.

Marco wanted to know what he did wrong.

Pecco stared at him for a long time before shaking his head. “As long as you're careful, you know I don't care, Bez,” he said softly and got up to make his way to his bike, sending one last nod his way and leaving him sitting on his white plastic chair.

Marco frowned at the floor in front of him. The guilt in his stomach returned with vengeance, making him swallow harshly. He didn't like lying; he would rather keep things honest in his life. It avoided a lot of trouble. There was no way he was ever going to speak about this, however. It felt like a looming execution waiting for him to make a single slip.

He also wanted to talk to Marc. He needed to talk to the other man. It had haunted him all break, the unknown of it. Marco had considered texting Pecco, Franky, or Luca for Álex's number, but he backed down once he realized he would have to explain himself. What would he even say? And what certainty did he have that Álex would even give him Marc's number? The youngest Márquez brother had the reputation of being fiercely protective of his other half, and Marco supposed he wasn't on the list of approachable people even to this day.

He could try social media, but what would that look like to Marc? Marco wanted to be taken seriously.

He moped through all break, pondering on what to do, on what to say. He'd stalked Marc's Instagram religiously every day to see if new content was released.

Marco had released a full-blown moan at the pictures of Marc lounging on a boat with friends. The man was practically naked, the sun making his skin take on a golden hue stronger than his usual one. He looked beautiful. Marco wanted nothing more than to be on that boat with him when he saw this. The urge clawed at his chest until it manifested as a physical sort of pain.

He'd stared at these pictures for a long while. Marco had jerked off desperately to them, trying to remember what Marc's voice sounded like moaning his name. Maybe he craved the other man; maybe having him once had opened the door to his buried desires and had allowed them to roam free. Whatever it was, it made him feel like he wasn't in control.

He had opted to wait until Austria to talk to the other man. Maybe that was cowardly of him.

Marco wasn't a coward, but…

But.

It would be better for everyone involved this way. Even if he had to pretend like there wasn't a nail piercing his chest every time anyone talked to him. It was hard to act like everything was fine in front of the Academy. In front of Vale. Marco didn't regret what he did. He couldn’t even if he tried. That didn't mean it would be accepted by his friends. It wouldn't be.

Marco didn't even know if Marc regretted it. Maybe he did, and that was the reason he left without a single word. Maybe Marco would corner him in Austria and receive nothing but harsh words and spat insults.

The thought made him want to crawl into a hole and disappear.

He looked at the buzzing around him helplessly. He felt like he was being silenced, here. Like there was a hand clasped on his mouth preventing him from screaming out. It was suffocating, and a part of him despised it. He was supposed to be at home, here. Not fearing every small reaction around him like a paranoid man.

It made him despise Marc a little.

Marco didn't want to feel like this. He was ready to jump out of his skin, his every bone itching yet unable to be scratched.

Austria couldn't come any faster.

He arrived in the paddock with a buzzing under his skin. Pecco gave him side glances the entire time. His friend came back from a test in Balaton Park with a frown on his face, as if he was contemplating something.

And that something definitely had to do with Marco, considering that frown only really appeared when the Ducati rider thought he wasn't looking.

He knew Marc had been in Hungary. Everybody knew that. Was he jealous that Pecco managed to spend time with the man he was ruminating over? A bit, maybe. He didn't let it show, but there was still that burning envy whenever he saw his friend or any video of the testing.

(Marc had looked so good in them. Marco re-watched them so many times he lost count, cataloging every detail he could. Like how long Marc's hair now was. And how his leathers were singed on one side, indicating a crash.)

He wasn't worried. He wasn't. Marc crashed all the time. He was fine.

(Except the times he wasn’t.)

Marco didn't talk about it with Pecco; he only asked him how it went for him and nothing else. His friend was already suspicious; he didn't need to provide any more material or evidence.

Evidence to nothing. This may just well have been a one-night stand. Marco was fine with that.

(No he wasn't.)

All he needed was to talk with Marc. Just to clarify. He needed clarification more than anything at the moment.

It was just his luck that they happened to be in the pre-event press conference together.

Marco sat on the far right. Acosta was already there, fiddling with his chair with an air of boredom floating around him. The younger man hadn't questioned anything that might or might not have happened before the summer break. For that, Marco was grateful.

It was already bad enough to feel Fabio's curious eyes on him whenever they crossed paths. The Frenchman probably didn't get what was happening, but he definitely understood that something was.

Marco bit his nail impatiently and tried not to stare at the empty seat next to him. Would Marc act any differently than usual?

Part of him wanted him to. It meant acknowledging that something had happened between them. But it would also raise suspicion. Perhaps it was better if Marc acted like he always did. It was just that Marco wasn't sure he would be able to handle it, that composed smile directed at him by someone he had dreamed about for the past month. It would hurt more than anything to be dismissed like that. Like he was worth nothing, and Marc had already forgotten about what happened.

Whatever it was, he would suck it up and endure. There were no other options.

Chatter picked up around them, the energy in the air intensifying the way it only seemed to do around Marc Márquez. The man let a member of the staff mic him up patiently. He didn't look in a hurry for a man two minutes late.

Marc jumped on the stage, clapping Acosta's hand and turning to Marco to do the same. The Italian reached out slowly, feeling dazed, and let their hands make contact for a quick greeting. Marc gave him a bland smile, a small nod, and went to sit on his chair in the middle.

Marco stayed frozen in his spot. Something in his chest shriveled and died at the sight.

(Just because he expected it did not make it any easier.)

He turned his eyes back to the room full of journalists, the muscles in his face going slack.

It felt a little bit like dying.

Marc didn't say anything. Didn't even look him in the eyes. This was as much of a confirmation as he could hope to get.

It hadn't meant anything to the older man. It was expected. Marco was stupid to hope for anything else. Who left without saying goodbye if they did not regret it?

He felt dazed for the rest of the conference, answering as curtly as he could manage to get away with. Marco could describe his current state as akin to being hit with a sledgehammer right in the face. His ears were ringing, and he had to stop his cheeks from flaming in embarrassment.

He was such an idiot.

He was such an idiot…

The press conference wrapped up quickly to his relief. Marco got up as quickly as he could, avoiding looking at Marc altogether and getting rid of his mic. The moment he was free, he fled the stage without a single glance back. He could feel eyes burning through his back. He told himself he didn't care anyway.

(Caring only ever ended with him getting hurt.)

He fled to his motorhome. Marco had already done all his interviews for the day. They kept asking him if he would be the one to bring the fight to Marc once more. He gritted his teeth and answered that he would do his best.

More people were looking at him now. They had expectations that made him want to laugh out loud.

Him, fight against the Ducatis? Yeah, sure.

Beat the Ducatis? He could do that, too.

Win against Marc Márquez on a Ducati? That was another thing entirely.

Sometimes, Marco would like to put these journalists on his Aprilia so they could feel the way she tensed and whined under their legs. She was a capricious bike compared to the smooth beast that was the Ducati. And then he would tell them to go and beat Marc Márquez.

Maybe then, they would understand exactly what they were asking of him. He would try, of course, he would. He'd die before giving up, but it didn't change the fact that this was not a fair fight. He couldn’t do anything about that, only accept it.

Maybe if he did that, these journalists would stop talking about Marc every damn interview he gave.

He didn't want to talk about Marc anymore. He'd rather just forget about the whole thing. Spare himself the embarrassment of remembering that he had wallowed the entire break over someone who didn't even care.

He slammed the door of his motorhome shut behind him, flopping down on his couch with a groan. Marco buried his face in the pillows and tried to clear his thoughts.

His phone vibrated in his pocket.

The Italian gave an irritated sigh and reached for his back pocket, taking out the offending device.

He accepted the call and pressed the phone to his ear. “Bez here.”

“Bez, are you alright?” Asked the worried voice of Pecco through his speaker.

“Is that all you are able to ask me?” he answered jokingly, trying to make himself sound less destroyed. This was a hard pill to swallow, but one he had to anyways.

Pecco huffed, “I saw the press conference, Bez. It looked like your mind left your body. It was scary. So, yes. Are you alright?”

“I'm fine! I'm perfectly fine! It's not like I spent a ridiculous and very embarrassing amount of time thinking about someone who never really gave a shit about me. What was going through my mind? He never cared, so why would he start now? I'm stupid. Stupid.” He ranted, barely stopping to take a breath. He wanted to hit himself on the head.

Pecco took a deep breath, “Listen. I don't know what you and Marc talked about, and I will not ask. But I want you to know that he has been acting strange. He is not speaking to me or to Álex about it. Clearly, there is something bothering him, too, so maybe you two should talk instead of avoiding each other?” He suggested softly. Marco bit his lip as he waited for him to finish.

“I don't know, Pecco. Maybe it's better that way. I should just be happy with what I have,” he said weakly. The Ducati rider wouldn't know what he was referring to, but that didn't matter. Maybe it was his destiny to spend one single night with Marc before going back to the way things were before. It's not Marc's fault that Marco got attached.

(And that was the worst thing, wasn't it.)

Realizing that you didn't miss someone simply for the sex, but because you wanted to hear their terrible cackles at every little unfunny thing and see them dance on the podium with a happiness very few could reproduce.

Because Marco had seen these pictures of Marc on that stupid boat, and a small part of his brain had longed to be there too.

A single night had opened a can of worms he had done his best to ignore since…well, since forever, really.

“I don't know, Bez. I still think you should talk to him. He's not going to approach you like he did last time. I think it's up to you to decide what you want to do with this,” Pecco told him and sighed. “I am glad that you're okay.”

Marco stared at the wall in front of him, thinking about the other Italian's words. “Thanks, Pecco. I don't know why you bother, but thanks. I will think about it,” he whispered in the silence of his motorhome.

“You better,” he huffed. “Now take care of yourself and don't forget to text your team. We'll see each other tomorrow, okay?”

Marco gave a small smile to himself.

“Yeah, we will, thanks again. Ciao, Pecco,” he said and hung up, throwing his phone at the other end of the couch and putting an arm over his eyes.

Talk to Marc, huh.

Fat chances.

He knew Pecco was more knowledgeable about anything Marc-related as his teammate, but he hadn’t seen the blank look thrown his way before the press conference. Yeah, he could go and talk with Marc, but he didn’t think it would help with anything. The situation was pretty clear in his mind.

He only needed to focus on the race now. Everything was back to normal. Marc would go back to giving him the formal treatment, and Marco would suck it up as he's done since he became a MotoGP rider.

That was it.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Just like normal.

By the time of the first free practice on Friday, Marco managed to work himself up to anger. It burned through his chest, simmering quietly​

Jorge had taken to giving him looks, too. He'd just add him to the rapidly growing list of people being disturbingly concerned about him.

“So…”

Marco glared at his teammate.

Jorge clamped his mouth shut.

“Right. No asking. Got it.”

The Italian turned to look at his data once more.

“But if I were to ask…” Jorge continued, and he shot the Spaniard a dark look.

“I would tell you to stop very politely,” Marco said and gave him a smile with his eyes closed.

Jorge gulped and went back to staring at his own data.

So yes, Marco was angry. It would probably fade during the week, and then he'd go back to feeling sorry for himself.

But right now, the only thing occupying his mind was FP1 and the fiery need to do well. He rolled out on track with grim determination. He didn't care much that it was a free practice; he was going to go all out.

Marco rolled out of the pits with his Aprilia growling under him. She seemed as ready to go as he was.

He didn't see Marc much the entire hour. But then he'd stare at the timing board and be assaulted with a vision of red every time, the Spaniard's name an unmoving mountain at the top. It was frustrating.

He wanted to bring the fight to Marc. He wanted to show the older man that he could be a threat, that he was at least worth being considered in the danger equation for the Ducati rider. Maybe, if he beat Marc…

He finished third. Behind Pecco also. Him and the Ducatis.

Marc still didn't look at him.

He grit his teeth and flopped down on his seat in the garage. Now Massimo was giving him concerned looks, too. He shook his head at the older man.

Marco was overreacting. He knew he was. Marc was always like this with him. It's not like he was acting out of character all of a sudden. It was just that now that he had gotten a taste of what it might be like to have Marc's attention and kindness on him…

He didn't want to go back. He didn't. The thought repulsed him.

He ended up roaming around while waiting for practice to start, signing a few caps here and there. There wasn't much else to do; the Aprilia had never performed very well on this track so they were in uncharted territory right now. Marco felt good. It was a tricky track, but it didn't feel like an impossible task to get a podium here.

“Impatient?” A voice asked on his left, and he turned to look at Dovi, perched quietly outside the Yamaha garage. He knew the other Italian was here for the race, but he hadn’t seen much of him until now.

“Ah, yes. Maybe a bit. How are you, Dovi?” Marco asked and brought a hand up to mess up his hair.

The older man gave him a smile. “Better than you, I suppose,” he said, and Marco raised an eyebrow.

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

“How would you know how I'm feeling?” He asked defensively, crossing his arms. The mechanics inside the Yamaha garage looked at them curiously before continuing their work. They must make a funny picture: Marco pacing around impatiently and Dovi leaning against a wall, smiling mysteriously.

“It's written all over your face! And I've been inside your shoes before. It's not easy, is it? The expectations,” Dovi said with knowing eyes, and the younger stopped tapping his foot on the floor.

“You can't talk. You lived up to the expectations,” he muttered almost to himself, the other Italian barely catching his words. When Dovi did, he let out a barking laugh, startling the people shuffling around them. The older man looked incredibly amused, like Marco had just told him the best joke he had ever heard. It made him want to bristle.

“Trust me, Bez. If there's one thing I didn’t do, it's live up to the expectations,” Dovi said with self-depreciation. Marco froze and took his time to look at the other man.

Dovi looked almost nostalgic in the shadow of the garage. This was the man who had beaten Marc multiple times here. There was no debating his prowess on the bike.

“I think you did pretty well, for someone who had to fight Márquez,” he said rather honestly. It was true; Dovi was an impressive rider. Not everyone could do what he did during all those years as Marc's main rival.

The older Italian gave a small smile. “Most people tell me I'm crazy when I say that I miss battling Marc,” he let out a laugh. “They ask me, ‘Why would you miss losing?’ but for me, I didn’t see it as losing. I loved it, fighting Marc on track. Even with all the pressure on my shoulders, he made me forget about it. Perhaps that was an act of kindness from him. I never asked.”

Dovi looked him in the eyes. “I think that maybe you understand what I'm talking about.”

He bit the inside of his cheek.

Yeah, he did understand.

The first time he and Marc properly battled around one year ago seemed very far away now. The Spaniard made him live so many emotions in one little fight that he hadn’t known how to deal with it. It was exhilarating to fight with Marc. Most people found it scary or dangerous, and he wasn't about to argue with them. Marc was a bastard on track. But for some ridiculous reason, Marco loved it. He loved how his heart started beating faster, how he could feel his blood pumping in his veins faster than usual. The adrenaline coursing through him was unique.

Fighting Marc made him feel alive. Passing him felt better than sex. Finishing in front of him after exchanging places was as mind-blowing as a win.

Marco lowered his head to hide the way his eyes started burning.

Cazzo. He wanted to fight Marc again.

“Yeah,” he answered softly. He had a hard time imagining what Dovi felt like, actually. He never fought Marc for a championship.

(The mere thought of it sent a shiver down his spine.)

“Don't think too much about it, Bez. Just appreciate it. The others can go to hell,” Dovi said with a grin, and Marco snapped his head back up. The older man gave him a thumbs-up in encouragement.

Marco huffed a laugh, disbelieving.

“That's easier to say!”

“Maybe. But that's how you enjoy the things you love in life, no?” Dovi said, and his answer got stuck in his throat.

“If you really love racing, then who cares?” The older man retreated into his garage with a wave, leaving him standing in front of the Yamaha bikes. A black dot in a sea of dark blue.

Marco swallowed harshly.

Dovi was right. Marco knew that. It's just that, for one single moment, it didn't sound like he was talking about racing.

His lips pulled in a frown, and he whipped around to hide in the comfort of his own garage. Had Dovi gone through the same problems as him? Did he also get swiped up in Marc's orbit with no apparent way to detach himself? It would make sense.

Maybe Marco wasn't a special case at all, then. Maybe this was just regular business to Marc, and he was the one blowing it out of proportion.

He should just stop thinking about it, honestly.

He had a practice to go through.

“Marco,” said Valentino from where he was gracefully perched on his small kitchen counter. His teacher had knocked on his door at an abysmal hour.

Marco, dazed and still shell-shocked from everything that had happened on Friday, had opened the door silently, his eyes burning a hole through the floor.

“Marco, I need you to look at me.”

He may as well have finished last in that practice. He'd stared at his name so hard that tears had formed in his eyes from the sting of the wind. It was very windy in Austria.

“Marco!” Vale's voice cracked the loud silence of the room and hands settled on his cheeks, grounding. His eyes widened as they made contact with Valentino's. Blue irises were piercing through him with an intensity only Il Dottore was known to have.

“I need you to breathe,” Vale said, a deep and rumbling voice curling around Italian words purposefully.

Marco sucked in a breath.

“I don't know what to do, Vale. I want to win,” he whispered to the older man. The burning desire to fight for the victory was clashing against the despair he felt at the thought of having to go through Q1. He knew he could pull good results, but he had known that during practice too, and he still managed to fuck it up. What would he do if he fucked qualifying, too?

He needed to be up there. He just didn't know if it was possible, even if he tried his damn hardest. That stupid Aprilia had never performed well here in the past. Why would it start now?

The hands on his cheeks tightened, and Vale shook Marco's head gently. “Stop thinking about the podium right now. You should not care about the podium,” he said imperviously, and the younger man's mouth dropped open.

“Vale? What the f—”

“Look at me,” Valentino snarled.

He stopped breathing, his heart stuttering in his chest.

“Forget about the stupid podium. Right now, you will go in Q1, and you will finish first. Not second, Marco. First. That is your only goal right now. Then you will go to Q2, and you will finish first. Do you understand me?” Vale said confidently, his eyes burning through Marco's.

“And then, you can think about the races. About winning them, not getting a podium. If there is anyone who can do it, it is you.”

They stared at each other for a long time, Vale looking grimly determined and Marco standing completely baffled.

It made him want to cry that his teacher would say this to him while having an entire team to prioritize before anyone else. Did the man truly believe in him?

“I…I'm going to get through Q2,” he said, and placed his hands on top of Vale's, squeezing them. The older man smiled in victory and engulfed him in a warm hug. Marco clutched at the other Italian with all his might.

“You will be fine, Bez. You do not give up easily,” Vale murmured and let go of him. “Now we will go through all your data together and see what we can do, si?”

Marco smiled at his mentor.

He was lucky to have him by his side.

Marco realized he had forgotten about Marc completely until he was rudely reminded again in the form of Álex Márquez.

He was still swimming in the bliss of not only getting through Q1, but being on pole.

Marco was on pole.

(If you told this to him a few hours ago, he would have laughed.)

He just pulled the lap of his life and ran with it, and it was enough to beat all of the Ducatis.

Marco was on fucking pole.

His team shook him around, and he yelled to the skies.

He clapped Pecco and Álex's hands and did his interview. He thanked Vale because the man always knew exactly what to say to bring his morale up. He also thanked Casey.

The retired rider had swung by. They didn’t talk much, but his imposing presence was enough for Marco to get a rush of energy.

They were led inside a building. Marco wouldn't be able to stop smiling even if he wanted to. He was on top of the world.

He saw Pecco give curious glances at Álex, who looked somewhat worried. He didn't look very pleased for a man who had gotten p2.

Well, Marco supposed that if you got p2 every damn race, it started to taste a bit bitter in the mouth.

But then Pecco finally decided to break the silence after another minute of hesitant staring.

“Álex, what happened to Marc? Is he alright?” He asked softly. Álex snorted beside him.

Marco felt like his world had stopped spinning, his ears ringing loudly enough that he barely managed to catch the reply.

“He crashed. Couldn't get a good enough lap for a front row after that,” the youngest Márquez said, and Pecco nodded like it made sense. None of them noticed him just a few steps behind, his smile now wiped from his face. Álex hadn't answered Pecco's question.

Marc had crashed?

Pecco made his way to the general direction of the Ducati garage, and Álex made to follow him, Gresini not being far away, but Marco gripped his arm before he could get away.

“Is he alright?” It slipped from his mouth before he could even try to stop it. His pulse felt loud in his neck.

Did he injure himself? Marc was reckless; he often injured himself. Like in Assen.

Álex's mouth pulled in a small frown as he stopped beside him.

“Why do you care? Marc's crashed before and it didn't bother you,” he said, leveling him with a bored stare. It was almost worse than anger.

Marco felt guilt tear up his inside violently. He practically shook from the strength of it. It was a similar feeling to the one he had gotten when Marc had thanked him. Why would the older man even do that? Marco didn't do anything worth being thanked for.

It was true that he'd looked the other way any time Marc crashed before. He hadn’t cared.

He felt like hitting himself in the head now. His mind conjured Marc, grinning sharply up at him. Marc, looking at him with eyes full of desire as he fucked into him. Marc, as they both stood on the podium and sprayed champagne on each other.

Marc, who had looked at him as he made a stupid joke to the media, and laughed.

Marc, who crashed during qualifying without him knowing about it.

He didn't care before. He didn't. But Marco couldn't go back to that, no matter how much he tried. The Spaniard could act like nothing happened, but he could not. There was no part of him willing to summon that old anger. It still felt justified to him, but he couldn’t understand it anymore.

He stuffed the suffocating guilt as far back as he could and glared at the man in front of him. “Who said I didn’t care? Maybe you should update your facts. Is he alright?” He asked with a glare. He wasn't about to be intimidated by the Gresini rider.

Álex gave him a surprised look, blinking a bit. “What. Did you change your mind about him now?” He asked in confusion, and Marco gripped his arm tighter.

“You've never seen someone shift opinion, idiot?”

“Well, I certainly didn't expect you to be—”

“Don't assume things about me,” he hissed.

“What would Rossi say if he saw you right now?” Álex asked curiously, perhaps legitimately wondering the answer too. Marco recoiled, letting go of the Spaniard's arm.

“I don't—” I don't care about that. Except that was a lie, no? He cared enough to still feel the shimmer of guilt inside of him whenever he thought about Marc in front of his teacher. It felt like a betrayal. Not physical, but more…psychological, in a way. What would Vale say if he saw Marco right now? He didn't know. And honestly? The answer to that question haunted him more and more each and every day.

“Vale is not important to this right now,” he ended up croaking. He could think about the man later. “Is Marc alright?” He pleaded, clenching his hands by his sides to stop them from trembling.

Álex observed him for a long moment before giving a tired sigh.

“Marc is fine, Bezzecchi. Don't worry about it,” he said and turned to follow the path Pecco had taken.

“Fine doesn't mean shit, Márquez! Is he hurt or not?” he called out after the Spaniard. Marc was very often ‘fine'. The entire grid had learnt better than to take that at face value.

“Why don't you just go and ask him yourself, if you care so much?” Álex said and disappeared into the distance, leaving a fuming Marco behind.

Fucking Álex Márquez.

He ran a hand on his face, his shoulders sagging.

He didn't want to talk to Marc. He was scared, yeah. He didn't want Marc to give him another bland smile, like the one he gave everyone else, and tell him that he was fine in such a way that Marco would never know if it was the truth or not.

But he was worried and guilty. If not to save himself from the embarrassment, then for the sake of simply knowing if the man was okay.

Marco just wanted to know if he really was alright. He could forget about anything else for now. It didn't really matter at the end of the day. He could shove his feelings somewhere and forget about them for now.

He just needed to talk to Marc.

The sprint came and passed. Marco started on pole against all expectations. He looked at Marc just behind him, scanning him for a slight hint of discomfort. It crossed his mind that this could be interpreted as trying to assess the competition before the race, but frankly, that was the last thing on his mind. If Marco won today, it wouldn't be because he knew someone was in pain. He'd rather win clean.

Marc looked fine. He always did. His hair danced in the wind when he took off his cap. It was shorter than usual, Marco had noticed. Both brothers had cut it during the break.

He tore his eyes away and took a deep breath, flushing everything that was not race-related from his mind. He pulled on his helmet and stared at the track in front of him.

Bring it on.

The light flashed in front of his eyes, and he accelerated forward, his Aprilia rumbling under him. This was a Ducati track; he knew he had very few chances of staying in front for a short race, but he still had to try.

In the end, he finished fourth. Just outside the podium. Behind Pedro on a KTM.

He was happy, of course, he was. From Q1 to fourth in the sprint was not bad at all. But he wasn't here to finish fourth.

(He wanted the podium. He wanted to win.)

But fourth on his Aprilia was still good. He had to understand that.

Marco wiped the sweat off his brow and listened to the faraway cheers from the podium. This day wasn't over yet for him.

There was still something he needed to do.

(Marc won. That was expected. But Marc was also possibly hurt.)

Marco needed to know. There was a chance that Marc wouldn’t want to tell him; he'd suck it up and leave it alone.

He just needed to know. To ask.

He waited until Marc finished all of his winner responsibilities before catching his attention. He chose to wait in a grassy alley between two empty motorhomes. The Italian didn't want to corner the Spaniard and make the man feel forced to give him answers.

He saw a red figure passing in front of him and startled back in the present.

“Marc!” He shouted-whispered. The man in question whipped around in surprise, and Marco could see the way his brow lifted when they saw him. He didn't know if that was good or not.

“Bezzecchi?” he asked in confusion, and Marco ignored the painful pang at the sound of his last name. It used to be ‘Marco’. Never Bez, like everyone else. He didn't know why. All he knew was that it made him feel special, and he liked it.

He gestured Marc forward with a hand, and they both settled in the obscurity between the two motorhomes.

Marc opened his mouth to ask a question. Probably to ask him what the hell was going on, but Marc beat him to it.

“Are you feeling alright?” He asked quickly, and the Spaniard's mouth closed right back up. He'd rather not let the man talk about anything else but this. He didn't want to hear the Ducati rider pity him for thinking that their whole thing was more than it was.

Marc blinked at him in confusion, all previous questions apparently forgotten. “Well, yes? I just won the sprint, so. I do need a shower, though,” he answered hesitantly and patted his still-damp leathers. They were probably soaked with alcohol.

Marco blushed. “Ah, no. I meant after your crash earlier. They showed it on the big screen after. You hit the bad side, I think,” he said gently, as if speaking to a wild animal. In fact, he had rewatched a clip of the crash about a dozen times while eating dinner to try to see if it looked bad. He wouldn't tell that to Marc. He also knew that the Spaniard was very cagey about this topic, and Marco was definitely crossing a boundary by asking. He just needed to know.

His reply seemed to stun Marc out of an answer, and he just stared Marco in the eyes with an intensity that was almost scarily similar to Vale's.

Marco shifted on his feet, fidgeting with his fingers unconsciously. It's not that Marc made him anxious, but…

He didn't know if the man would even bother to tell him if he was in pain or not. He’d think it was a stupid thing for him to ask, probably.

“I…You are asking if I am in pain?” He repeated, baffled. Marco simply nodded and did his best not to growl.

Marc was surprised he was asking. Like it was a rare occurrence. Did people not worry about him when he fell? Did no one on the grid ever ask him how he felt after a crash for a reason other than to exploit that weakness? Marco knew he had never asked before, but he assumed people did.

Did Pecco always ask Álex and accept the half-baked answers he received from Marc's overly protective brother?

Marc barked a laugh, his eyes still guarded. “Yes, I am fine. It was not a big crash, so there is no need to worry,” he said with a smile, and Marco fought the urge to snap at him and say that this didn't make it any better. That people shouldn't start asking only when they judged the crash was bad enough to warrant it.

He felt like kicking something.

“It's still a crash, Márquez. Don't brush it off like that,” he reprimanded, unable to help it. He didn't know why it felt so important, but he needed Marc to understand him right now.

“What, so you want me to tell you how I'm doing? I'm not giving you material for tomorrow's race, Bezzecchi. Win by your own means,” Marc said cruelly, and Marco was about to snap back at him when he saw the look in the Spaniard's eyes.

Scared. He looked scared.

It made whatever he was going to shout crawl back inside his throat. He looked at the other man. Really looked at him for the first time since that night. His shoulders were poised in a defensive stance, his back straight as a rod. He'd crossed his arms in front of his chest, but now that he looked at it, it seemed less imposing and more protective than anything else. His face was stern, a hint of cold humour splashed on his features that made him look mean, while he most definitely wasn't. His eyes told another story. They looked hesitant, almost afraid of whatever Marco planned to say. But that wasn’t what pierced his chest like a blunt nail.

No. It was the resigned glint in them. As if Marc was expecting Marco to be cruel.

It made him want to shake the man and ask what was wrong with him.

“You don't have to tell me, you know. There's no need to try and get me angry; it won't work. I'm just…I'm just going to leave then. Sorry to bother you,” he said in a small voice and turned to walk away. Marco didn't know how to fix all of this; how to prove to Marc that he was just worried about him. The best thing to do was probably this, then. He won't push the other man to give him an answer. That would be mean of him. He didn’t want to be cruel, no matter what the Spaniard thought of him. And whatever he did think of him was probably warranted. Maybe it was truly helpless, then.

“Wait, Marco!” Marc called, and he immediately stopped at the sound of his name leaving the Spaniard's mouth.

He turned and stared at the older man. He looked tired, all of a sudden.

“Why do you want to know, then? If not for…” he trailed off, and the Italian had to wonder how many people acted like they cared only to use that knowledge afterwards. A name popped into his mind, and he quickly banished the thought. Now was not the time.

“Because I was worried about you,” he answered in complete honesty. Maybe Marc wouldn't believe him, but it felt good to say it to the man out loud.

Marc took a breath, blinking rapidly. His mouth opened and closed like a fish. Marco could see his crossed arms tightening, as if he was hugging himself. He kept his face open and honest in front of the Spaniard, letting him stare all he wanted.

“My arm hurts. It is not unusual. My hip is sore, too. Because of the slide,” Marc answered out of the blue, his words short and slicing. Marco's eyes widened at the confession. He didn't expect Marc to tell him the truth. He thought the best he could have gotten was a clipped and dismissive ‘I'm fine’.

Marc was still staring at him in mistrust, and Marco's chest flared in pain at the reminder that the older man did get hurt during qualifying. There was a chance that only he and Álex knew about this. It was normal for Marc to act guarded right now. For all he knew, Marco lied and was going to tell everyone. He didn't know how to make the man trust him.

But there was one thing he could do. To level the playing ground.

“I'm terrible at turn 3,” he started instead of commenting on what Marc just told him. He could see the older man falter from where he was standing. “The Aprilia, it is not good on this track. I can try and make up for it with long term pushes, but that's going to send my tire management to hell. That is why the end of the race will be harder for me if I want to stay in front.”

He didn't know if Marc would understand what he was doing; he could only hope. This felt like the only thing he could give back right now. Maybe it was not of the same gravity, but this was something that could be used against Marco, and he had just given it to Marc. It was a promise, of sorts.

‘If you don't say anything, neither will I.’

Marc's shoulders slumped, and he let out a breathy laugh, as if stunned.

“You are ridiculous, Marco!” He honked a laugh and clutched at his stomach in support as he shook from the strength of his giggles.

“Well, people do say that about me,” he chuckled, unable to help himself. Marc's joy was addictive, pulling you until you were entangled with it. It felt like a weight had disappeared off his chest. The Spaniard trusted him with this; he wasn't going to break that trust. It was already way more than he had expected.

Still, he could live with this. He and Marc, laughing quietly in the shadow between two motorhomes, only the two of them existing in that moment.

They lapsed back into a comfortable silence, and he couldn’t help but look at the older man with fondness. Maybe, if he could get this, then it didn't matter if they talked about that night or not. He would be happy to keep this his whole life if it were offered to him.

“Thank you for telling me.”

He smiled at the Spaniard and took a step back despite his entire body screaming at him to stay near the other man. It pained him to walk away, but he did not want to make Marc uncomfortable. He was more than satisfied with what he had gotten.

“Please put some ice on your hip tonight,” he added just before leaving. He didn't know how Marc took care of his arm, or if he took care of it at all. But a hurt hip, he knew.

The older man looked conflicted before letting his arms fall at his sides. “We will talk tomorrow?” He asked hesitantly, like he was scared he was going to object. Marco was struck by the stark difference between the man who had teased and poked at him during the Czech Grand Prix and the version of Marc currently standing in front of him. It was like two different entities in one body, a single meeting point between them. Marco didn't know what attached them together, what their dusk looked like.

He wanted to find out. He wanted to know everything about Marc; his every hurt, the every corner of his mind.

He smiled reassuringly, still baffled by the chance he was being given. “Of course we will. Sleep well, Marc.”

The Spaniard gave him a teasing grin. Ah, here was that other half. “You too, Marco!” He waved at him and Marco left in the light of the sun, his chest feeling full for the first time in weeks. He had to restrain himself from skipping as he headed to his motorhome.

Marc didn't hate him. Maybe they could be friends, after all.

Marco would take it, even if he had to curb that intense desire to touch every time he saw the man exhausted from a win and soaked with alcohol. He'd take anything Marc would give him. Marco would get on his knees if he had to.

He couldn't wait for the race.

Sunday was significantly better for Marco. The rider parade was spent lazing around and exchanging short glances with Marc on the other side of the platform.

They almost made a game out of it. Who could stare longer without raising suspicion. Marc had taken to making weird faces to make him laugh and lose, but he was fighting back by saying unfunny jokes out loud so the man would hear them. Luckily, the Spaniard's humour was completely destroyed, and he laughed at basically anything.

It was good. Marco felt happier than ever.

As he got out of his motorhome, suited up in his leather for the race, he heard someone clear their throat. He turned around with a smile and faced Marc.

“What? Here to wish me good luck?” He joked lightly, and the Spaniard hit the protective pad on his back.

“You do not need anyone to wish you luck! But, yes. I suppose I am,” Marc said with a laugh, and he felt his insides warm at the sound.

“Well, good luck to you too. And you definitely do not need me to say that,” he answered and clapped the hand offered to him. It felt like a shared complicity. It was still somewhat foreign to both of them, and it showed in the way Marco didn't quite know what to do sometimes, and how Marc flinched back like he expected the Italian to throw him to the hounds.

They would get there. Slowly.

Marc gave a loud cackle, making Marco look around quickly to see if they were still alone. It's not that he was ashamed, but…

He didn't want to deal with that. He liked that nobody could nose in their business that way.

Their hands were still clasped together, neither of them having let go yet, and Marco gave in to the urge and intertwined their fingers a little. Not enough to fully link them together, but in a way that would make him able to feel more warmth from these big palms.

Marc's gaze lowered down to stare at their hands, a complicated look overtaking his face. He gave Marco's hand a squeeze.

“Thank you, Marco,” he whispered and let go of him. “Let's have a good race, yeah?” And that mischievous look on his face was back, making his blood pump faster.

“I'm not going to make it easy for you,” he called as they started to separate, both going their own way.

“I wouldn't expect anything else from you,” Marc said and waved at him. Marco bit his lips to stop a whine from coming out. The words washed over him like hot water, making his muscles relax and his brain slow down. It sounded so confident, so certain. Like he couldn’t possibly disappoint Marc. He knew that he could, Marc knew that too, but chose to ignore it.

What was he supposed to do with that faith?

He wanted to run to Marc, catch him, and wrap his hands around him, never letting go. There was a deep sense of longing in his chest that he tried his best to squash. Having Marc so close was both paradise and hell.

When he settled on his bike under his umbrella, he did his best to forget about it. He was going to fight for a victory today.

Still, he shot one last glance behind him, looking at the composed way Marc was sitting as always. The Spaniard's gaze suddenly made contact with him, and Marco was about to give him a smile when the older man's eyes widened and he looked away abruptly.

The Italian's vision was shadowed as a figure appeared between him and Marc.

“Are you feeling ready, Bez?” Vale asked him and put a hand on his shoulder. Marco momentarily froze. The timing of the man was terrible. Or perfect.

He looked his teacher in the eyes and saw no signs of confusion or anger. Marco let out a breath and smiled shakily.

“More than ever,” he answered, and Valentino laughed.

“I told you it would be fine! Now there is only one thing to look for, and it is crossing the line first. This you can do, I know.” Vale said and messed his hair up. Marco squawked and put on his helmet to protect himself.

“I know I can! Stop it, my hair is going to be terrible because of you!” He laughed and fist-bumped the older Italian.

“I'll be watching!” Valentino shouted as he walked towards Pecco's bike to give him a small speech too. Marco felt his shoulders drop as the man left. He didn't dare looking back at Marc, he couldn't feel eyes burning through his back like he usually did when the Spaniard stared anyways.

There was another can of worms right there. Marco didn't know if he felt ready to open it just yet.

Instead, he focused ahead and let the mechanics leave the track for the start of the race.

His mind cleared, and he waited for the lights to go out.

Red flashed in front of his eyes, and Marco was off like a bullet. His start was good, and he could feel a gap forming between him and Pecco already. Good. Let it stay like that. The more Pecco held Marc back—and Marco had no doubts that Marc was waiting to pounce—the better for him.

The laps went down, down, down. The Aprilia was still a bit too unstable under him as he pushed to get another fastest lap. He could feel Marc getting closer, only to back up a couple of tenths. It made him restless and eager for their fight. He knew Marc was just biding his time, like he always did before overtaking.

The action did come. His board told him that the Spaniard was right behind him, although he already knew that just from the roaring that could be heard from the Ducati engine. Marco could almost feel the burning heat of Marc's bike.

He grinned under his helmet. He wasn't going to let Marc pass the easy way.

The man overtook him, and Marco immediately hugged a tighter line along the track and passed right back ahead. He breathed a small laugh, unable to stop himself. This was what racing was supposed to be.

This was what he wanted every damn lap.

Unfortunately, it couldn't go on. The Aprilia stuttered, and Marc took back the lead like a tiger that was waiting to strike, wasting no time to create a gap between them. Marco cursed and willed his bike to keep up as much as it could. He'd settle for second.

Perhaps he should have been more focused on what was happening behind him, because the next thing he knew, he was battling Fermín Aldeguer for second place and losing.

He crossed the line third and consoled himself with the fact that Marc had almost been caught, too. What were they feeding that kid back at Gresini?

He took off his helmet once he arrived in parc fermé and met Marc's eyes. They were crinkled around the edge, a consuming happiness filling them to the brink. What else could he do but smile back?

Marco was aware of all the eyes looking at them, and so was Marc, if the way he mostly spoke to Fermín and his team said anything. He couldn’t stop himself from brushing close, letting the back of their hands brush lightly. A comforting touch, one that meant more than any praise said out loud. Marco could feel his face getting redder by the second.

It was stupid to get flustered by such a simple gesture. Marc didn't even look at him, yet the way he pressed his hand just a fraction closer was more than enough. They had to separate eventually, and it felt worse than losing second place.

They shoved all of them in a car, and Marco let Fermín do most of the talking with Marc, the youngest of the three being on cloud nine right now. He'd feel jealous of the way Marc was laughing and answering so quickly if it weren't for the pinky finger discreetly entangled with his between their thighs. He focused on the warmth of the Spaniard next to him and told himself that he had more than anybody could ever hope to have, like this.

They tried their best to hide the way they wanted to smile at each other like they shared a secret joke, but on the podium, it was harder to do so. Marc's energy was truly contagious, and no matter how much he said it, it was always as true as ever. He poured alcohol down his throat and let his bottle fall down the stage onto the hands of the Aprilia team members. They deserved something sweet, too. Fermín laughed behind him, and he looked up to see the younger man being absolutely assaulted with a spray by Marc. He let out a laugh. Could this be considered bullying or something?

“Marco! Come here, it is the picture!” Marc shouted with his stupid glasses still in his face and his cap backward. Maro used to find it annoying how the older man always did this while he celebrated. Now, all he could conjure up was endearment.

“I don't have a bottle!” He shouted back with a laugh.

Marc gave him a ‘what can you do’ gesture and brought him closer, shoving his own bottle in front of Marco. “Then we can share, no? We both did very well this race,” he said with a secret smile, and the Italian felt his face heat up. Beside them, Fermín placed his bottle in front of Marc to put them all on equal grounds.

Marco looked at the older man helplessly. How was he even real?

He wanted to kiss him until his lips hurt. He already knew their taste, but more and more the memory became distant until all he could remember was the vague shape of them moulded to his.

“Are you still alright?” He asked above the deafening noise of the crowd, taking advantage of Fermín's distraction.

Marc pressed their hands holding the bottle together closer. “A bit sore, but again it's normal for me,” he said quietly. He had to lean closer to hear the words. “What about you? Did turn 3 bother you much?”

The fondness nestled in his chest spread to his entire body. Marc knew how he did at turn 3; he spent enough time behind him to know everything about Marco, yet he asked.

What he wouldn't give to have another chance with this man.

“It was better than during the sprint, but you already know that,” he answered softly and knocked their shoulders together.

“True. Still.”

They had to stop staring at each other when the cameras waved at them, but the feeling remained. And so did the hope in Marco's chest.

They could be good. They would be good. Maybe they skipped a few steps last time, but this time it would be good.

The rest of the day passed like a blur, and next thing he knew, he was dumped on a chair in front of hundreds of microphones. Next to him, Marc was still vibrating from his win, his hands messing with his chair. Marco wanted them on him.

He managed to keep a straight face the whole press conference, until someone shoved a camera right on Fermín's boot, and Marc choked on his water next to him. He saw a big plan of his face next and had to witness his face do some interesting gymnastics to stay neutral.

“You spent a lot of time riding together during this race. Was there a weakness that you saw in each other? So, Marc, what was Marco's weakness, and Marco, what was Marc's weakness?” A reporter asked, snapping Marco out of the daze he had entered as Marc explained to everyone that Fermín had a lot of potential for the hundredth time.

He looked at Marc, stunned. The other man turned at the same time, and they simply stared at each other. A moment passed where the Spaniard's eyes flickered with doubts, and Marco gave him what he hoped was a very subtle, reassuring look. They were going to be fine.

Marc turned back to look at the press, pondering on the question for a few more seconds before huffing.

“The weakness I will keep for me,” he said, and Marco couldn't help but look at them all with a smug face. The complicity between them was euphoric. It made Marco want to shout at them and say, ‘See? This is what we are!’

“The strong point: corner speed. He was super good on the corner speed in that turn 3, turn 4. Sector 3 and sector 4,” he added, and the Italian had to force himself not to visibly gape at the other man.

Sure, he had improved there, but to say it was his best point?

He dug his nails into his palms to stop himself from reaching for the Spaniard and planting a kiss on his mouth.

“Well, weaknesses, not many, to be honest. Because when he passed me, then he was faster. Especially the difference was in the acceleration. He was really smooth and had a lot of traction in the stop-and-go corners,” he added when all the eyes turned toward him. The press conference ended at that, and Marco looked to see that Marc was staring right ahead, his hands clenched tightly.

Ah. Marco must have scared him, then. He wondered how long it would take for the Spaniard to truly believe he did not want to cause harm.

The ever-so-present guilt curled in his stomach again.

Probably a long time, considering some of their past history. Maybe they would have to talk about that, one day.

They were dismissed, and Marco immediately followed Marc outside the door. The older man gave him a smile. “To Hungary, then?” He asked, and Marco grinned.

“Just because you had a test there does not give you an advantage. We are all starting from scratch here,” he said smugly.

Marc gave a series of cackles. “Maybe you will give me another good fight! Until then,” a hand was presented to him and he blinked in confusion, shaking it instinctively.

“Until then,” he said, still a bit lost, and Marc skipped away with way too much energy in his small body.

What a weird man.

Marco turned to his own destination. Until then.

Until Hungary.