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Misano was drowning in damp silence. The paddock, which had been torn apart by the roar of engines and the shouts of the crowd just that morning, was now deadly quiet. The grandstands, crisscrossed with shadows, stood empty, their steel frameworks barely gleaming under the dim lanterns. The asphalt, covered with tire marks and oil stains, glistened from the drizzle, and the air smelled of burnt rubber and something acrid, almost metallic — the scent of defeat. The motorhomes, recently bubbling with life, now loomed dark, their logos appearing faded like old photographs.
Francesco stood by the Ducati motorhome, alone, as if the paddock had swallowed everyone except him. His black hoodie clung to his shoulders, his jeans were soaked at the ankles, but he didn't notice the cold. He stared at the wet gravel, but saw something else: the red Ducati sliding across the asphalt, his own hands clutching at air instead of the handlebars, and the engineers' faces after the race, their looks worse than any words. Failure. Another one. Pecco felt something cracking inside him, like the foundation he had built over years — two titles, hundreds of hours of training, millions of expectations — beginning to crumble. He hated himself for this feeling, for not being able to maintain control — his only religion.
He didn't hear the footsteps right away. They were soft, uneven, almost drowned out by the rustle of the rain. Enea emerged from the shadows, his figure blurred in the dim light, like a silhouette in an old film. His KTM suit had been left in the garage; now he wore a worn black jacket, a simple T-shirt clinging to his lean body, and jeans that had seen better days. His hair, damp from the drizzle, stuck to his forehead, and his eyes, usually sparkling with bold irony, were now dull, like a extinguished bonfire. Crashing out of the race — no longer a catastrophe, but still with a painful aftertaste. His weekend had been a string of mistakes: an aggressive move at the start, penalties, pit stops, a long lap he had to serve in Motegi. Enea knew his time at KTM was slipping away like sand through an hourglass. He was «La Bestia», but the beast inside him had long stopped roaring, reduced to a rasp.
Enea stopped a couple of meters away, hands shoved in his pockets. His gaze slid over Pecco — over the hunched shoulders, the tense neck, the eyes avoiding everything but the ground. Enea knew that look. He'd seen it in himself, on those nights when injuries and failures whispered that his talent was a mirage. But now his own wounds — the contract hanging by a thread, the feeling that he'd never catch up to those ahead — faded into the background. Because Pecco was here. And because Enea knew him. Better than he wanted to. Better than Pecco was ready to admit.
— Alone? — he asked, and his words hung in the air, muffled by the patter of rain. The Rimini accent softened them, but the weight remained.
Pecco didn't lift his gaze. His fingers clenched in his pockets, knuckles whitening, betraying the inner struggle.
— I thought you'd be with the press, — he said, his voice muffled like an echo in an empty garage. — Or with the team.
Enea exhaled, his shoulders dropping slightly, as if shedding an invisible burden. He leaned against the side of the truck, the cold metal seeping through his jacket, making him tense involuntarily. His gaze drifted to the horizon, where the grandstands blended into the sky.
— The press backed off, — he replied, a flicker of bitterness in his words that he quickly suppressed. — The team's packing up. They don't need me. — He paused, the word «superfluous» rising in his mind but not escaping. — And you? Where's your Tardozzi? Where's your signature self-flagellation ritual?
Pecco glanced at him, but only briefly. His eyes were murky, like a river after a storm, and in them lurked a fear he didn't want to name. The silence between them grew thick, like fog settling on the asphalt. Enea waited, not rushing, his breathing steady, but his fingers fidgeted in his pockets, revealing his nervousness.
Francesco stared at the gravel, but his thoughts ran deeper. He could still hear Davide's voice after the race: «Pecco, cosa cazzo fai?» He saw the engineers' faces, their nods as he tried to explain the tire choice. This season had been a meat grinder. Marc, his teammate, was a mirror reflecting only his own weaknesses. The crash in Misano was a sentence. He feared he was losing not just the title, but himself — the one who knew how to win. Control. His god. His cage. And today, he'd failed.
— I have a train in an hour, — said Enea, breaking the silence. His words were quieter, almost fragile, as if he feared they would shatter against Pecco's silence. — Bologna. I don't want to hang around in the hotel, staring at the wall or rewatching the race.
Pecco didn't respond. His gaze slid over the asphalt, but he was listening, and Enea knew it by the way his shoulders tensed.
— I got two tickets, — Enea continued, his voice turning to a whisper, as if revealing a secret. — I don't know why. Maybe because I'm tired. Maybe because you are too.
Pecco lifted his head. Their eyes met, and in that gaze was a truth neither wanted to voice. Enea waited, his heart pounding like before a start. He was used to taking risks on the track, but now, standing before Pecco, he felt exposed, without a helmet, without armor. His thoughts — about a career spiraling downhill, about how he'd never become who he wanted to be — threatened to burst out, but he pushed them back. Right now, only Pecco mattered.
— You're crazy, — said Pecco, his voice almost lifeless, but a question flickered in it. His eyes, dark in the dim light, fixed on Enea with an intensity that thickened the air.
Enea stepped closer, his sneakers crunching on the gravel. Less than a meter separated them — a distance that felt too vast and too intimate.
— Maybe, — he replied, his words firm, as if he'd decided to stop pretending. — But so are you, Francesco. We've both been clinging to control — over the bike, over ourselves, over everything. And what? Today, it crushed us both.
Pecco looked away, his jaw tightening. Enea's words were like a knife — not because they wounded, but because they cut through to the truth. Control was his everything. Every line, every turn, every tenth of a second. But today, control had failed him. And not just today. He thought about Marquez, how even without a win in Misano, he looked calmer, more assured. About how the team eyed him with doubt. About how he looked in the mirror and didn't recognize himself.
— What are we going to do in Bologna? — Pecco asked, his voice a whisper, as if he feared the answer. His gaze found Enea, and in it flickered a hope he didn't want to acknowledge.
Enea looked at him, his eyes serious. He inhaled the cold air and said:
— Just be. Eat something warm. Look at the square. Give ourselves a night to not run away.
Pecco stared at him, his thoughts tangling. He didn't want to go, didn't want to leave the paddock where every stone reminded him of failure. But he wanted even less to stay here, alone, with thoughts that suffocated him. Enea was right — they were both crazy. And maybe that was the only thing that made sense.
— Alright, — he said, exhaling as if dropping a weight from his chest. — But if anything comes up, you handle the press.
Enea nodded, a faint smile lighting his face. He felt something inside him loosen, as if he'd taken a step he'd feared.
— I know how to lie, — he replied, strength in his words. — You know that.
They headed toward the exit, their footsteps echoing in the emptiness. The rain intensified, drops drumming on the asphalt, but neither looked back. For the first time that day, Pecco felt like he was moving not toward an abyss, but somewhere else.
---
The train to Bologna was quiet, almost ghostly. The carriage smelled of coffee, damp fabric, and metal, as if the rails left a trace in the air. Outside the windows, the lights of the suburbs flashed by, dissolving into the darkness like stars in the morning sky. Enea settled by the window, tucking the hood of his jacket under his head, and soon his breathing became even — he dozed off, swaying to the rhythm of the train's movement. His face, usually animated, was now calm, almost fragile. Shadows from the lanterns glided over his cheekbones, emphasizing the fatigue he hid.
Pecco sat opposite, elbows on his knees, his gaze fixed on Enea. He didn't know why he was staring. Maybe because Enea was the only one who didn't demand that he be a champion. Maybe because in this silence, he saw Enea without a mask, without tension. Enea stirred in his sleep, his hair, damp from the rain, fell over his eyes, his jacket slipped off his shoulder, exposing a sharp collarbone. Pecco froze, his hand trembled, but something urged him forward. He leaned in, slowly, afraid to wake him, and gently brushed the hair from Enea's face, feeling the warmth of his skin. Enea didn't wake, only moved his lips, and Pecco pulled his hand back as if caught.
He turned away to the window, his heart pounding. What was he doing? They were rivals, teammates, but never... more? Pecco didn't know. He knew that Enea saw him broken, but not defeated. And that scared him. Because Enea knew him. Too well.
Enea, even through his drowsiness, felt the weight of the moment. His thoughts, cornered, whispered of loss — of career, faith, self. But he couldn't break. Not now. Because Pecco was here, and Enea knew he was needed.
---
Bologna met them with cold and noise. Bologna Centrale buzzed: taxis honked, tourists jostled, street musicians played melancholic melodies drowning in the hum of voices. The wet asphalt gleamed under the lanterns, reflecting neon signs and headlights like a shattered mirror. Pecco, accustomed to the sterility of the paddock, felt out of place, but it was liberating. Here he wasn't a champion, wasn't a loser. He was just a man, lost in the crowd.
Enea, awake but with sleepy eyes, stretched, cracking his neck. His jacket was rumpled, hair sticking out, and he looked as if he'd emerged from a long sleep. He surveyed the station, his gaze sliding over the crowd, the puddles reflecting lights, and something in his face softened.
— Well, what? — he asked, turning to Pecco. — Where are we going?
Pecco shrugged, hands in pockets, as if afraid of losing balance.
— You said no plans needed.
Enea nodded, his eyes serious but warm.
— Then let's go. Find something to eat.
They moved through narrow streets, their steps in sync, but each lost in their thoughts. Bologna enveloped them: passersby in scarves hurried past, the smell of coffee from cafes mixed with the dampness of the asphalt, the ringing of bells woven into the city's hum. Pecco stared at the sidewalk, at cracks in the tiles, and thought about the race, the crash, how his tire mistake became another crack in his armor. Enea, walking beside him, seemed calmer, but Pecco saw how his gaze sometimes went blank, and understood: he too carried a burden. But Enea didn't speak of it. Not now.
They stopped at a cafe on the corner, its sign faded, windows fogged from the warmth. A bell tinkled over the door as they entered. Inside smelled of fresh bread, fried onions, and wax from candles burning on the counter. Behind the counter stood a middle-aged woman, her hands moving quickly, but her gaze tired, as if she'd seen too many nights. On the counter lay piadinas, their crusts glistening under the lamp light, beside bowls of ham, cheese sliced thin, and french fries still sizzling from the oil.
Enea approached the counter, his movements lazy but with a confidence, as if he knew how to handle chaos, even if it was just ordering food. He looked at the woman, nodded to her as if apologizing for the late visit, and said:
— Two piadinas with ham and cheese. And french fries, plenty. — He hesitated, his gaze sliding over the counter, and added: — And a couple of beers, if you have them.
Pecco stood a little behind, hands in his pockets, his gaze sliding over the cafe — over the worn chairs, the stains on the tablecloth, the candles whose light flickered on the walls. He felt out of place, as if Bologna was too alive, too loud for his gloom. But Enea, standing at the counter, seemed right at home, as if the city embraced him despite his fatigue.
— You always choose like that? — Pecco asked, his voice restrained but with a hint of curiosity. — As if it's not just picking food, but a mini ritual.
Enea turned, his eyebrows slightly raised, and he shrugged, but a spark flashed in his eyes, as if he'd caught the subtext.
— Sometimes food is all you've got, — he replied, his words simple, but with a depth that Pecco felt but didn't probe. — Especially after a day like this.
The woman behind the counter muttered something, counting out change, and Enea responded with a short «grazie», his accent noticeable but soft. He took the paper bag with the piadinas, the still-hot fries, and two bottles of beer, covered in condensation droplets. Pecco watched as his fingers, slightly trembling from the cold, gripped the bag, and caught himself thinking that Enea looked more natural here, in this cafe, than in the paddock. As if Bologna, with all its chaotic life, was closer to him than the track.
They stepped out onto the street, the bell tinkling again, and the cold air hit their faces, mixing with the warmth of the piadinas. Pecco shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, his shoulders tensing as if defending against the city. Enea walked a bit more freely, but Pecco saw how his gaze sometimes froze, as if he too was battling something inside.
— To the square? — Enea asked without turning, his words nearly drowned in the street noise.
Pecco nodded, though Enea couldn't see.
— To the square, — he replied, his voice quieter than he'd intended.
--
Piazza Maggiore was empty, almost ghostly. The square breathed slowly, its stone surface reflecting the lights of the arches and lanterns, trembling like memories ready to vanish. The air smelled of dampness and distant smoke from roasting chestnuts. Pecco and Enea walked side by side, their steps in sync, but each immersed in their own thoughts. The piadina in Pecco's hands was still warm, its crust crunching, but the taste seemed distant, as if his senses were dulled. The beer, cold and slightly bitter, left an aftertaste that neither pleased nor irritated. He looked at the square, at its expanse, and felt the weight in his chest ease slightly, but that lightness frightened him — it seemed fragile, ready to disappear.
Enea walked beside him, his figure in the worn jacket seeming part of the night, but his movements held a vitality that Pecco hadn't found in himself for a long time. He stopped at a narrow curb along the arcade, looked at it as if weighing something important, and stepped up, arms outstretched like a tightrope walker over an abyss. His sneakers slipped on the wet stone, but he moved with confidence, like on the track where every turn was a challenge. Pecco watched him, and something tightened in his chest. Enea was alive, even when his world was crumbling — penalties, crashing out, the KTM contract hanging by a thread. It drew him in, but cut deep, because Pecco knew: he himself had long faded.
— They say I've lost my edge, — Pecco said suddenly, his words hanging in the air, muffled by the square's echo. He didn't look at Enea, his gaze fixed on the stones, but the words burst out, as if he couldn't hold them. — That I don't feel the bike like I used to. That I'm... not the same.
Enea stopped on the curb, his body swayed, but he held his balance. He turned his head, and his eyes, dark in the lantern light, found Pecco. There was no irony in them, only something deep, almost painful, as if he saw right through Pecco.
— And you? — he asked, his words direct like a blade. — Do you think that too?
Pecco was silent. His fingers clenched the bag with the piadina, the paper rustling. He wanted to say "no," wanted to believe he was still the one who'd taken two titles. But the doubts he'd been chasing away stood before him—like Marquez's shadow, like the engineers' looks, like his own reflection. He stared at the square, but saw only himself—broken, lost.
Enea looked at him, and his heart tightened. He knew that look—the look of a man on the edge. He knew Pecco, knew his walls, his fear, his strength. And he knew words wouldn't help. An action was needed. He took a step along the curb, his movements smooth but tense, as if preparing for a leap. And then, almost imperceptibly, he let his body sway more than necessary. His foot slipped, and he began to fall, arms flung out as if surrendering to the night.
Pecco reacted instantly. His hand shot forward, wrapping around Enea's waist, the other landing on his side, pulling him closer. Enea ended up in a slight lean, almost suspended, his beer bottle splashing onto the asphalt, foam spreading across the stone. His eyes widened, but in them flashed not panic, but trust he had no intention of hiding.
— There, — said Enea, his voice firm, as if he'd proven something important. — Your reaction's just fine.
Pecco held him, his fingers gripping the jacket fabric, his breathing uneven like after a sprint. His eyes looked at Enea with fury and relief.
— Why did you do that? — he asked, his voice almost a growl, but vulnerability seeped through. — You could've really fallen.
Enea looked him in the eyes, his face softened, but not from pity—from something deeper. He straightened a bit, but didn't pull away, feeling the warmth of Pecco's hands like an anchor.
— Because I trust you, — he said, and his words cut deeper than they could have. — I always have.
Pecco froze. Those words hit, touching something inside he'd long buried. Trust. Enea said it not for comfort—he knew Pecco, knew him better than he wanted. Pecco felt his throat tighten, something warm rising in his chest. He wanted to look away, but couldn't. Enea looked at him with an openness that was almost unbearable.
— That's not the best way, — said Pecco, his voice feeble, as if he was protesting for show. He was still holding Enea, his fingers not letting go, and that kept him from retreating.
Enea smiled faintly, but it wasn't irony—it was a smile hiding more than it showed. He looked at Pecco, and a spark flashed in his eyes, as if he'd made a decision.
— I know another way, — he said, his voice a whisper, but with a strength that made Pecco freeze. — To make the doubts in your head go quiet.
Pecco looked at him, eyebrows raised, and asked:
— What?
Enea didn't answer with words. His fingers gripped the collar of Pecco's hoodie, and he yanked him close. Their lips met—not softly, but with force, with a heat that built like a fire. The kiss was hungry, desperate, as if Enea was trying to convey everything he couldn't say—trust, pain, hope. Pecco froze for a second, but then responded, his hands on Enea's waist tightening, pulling him nearer. The kiss deepened, grew hotter, their breaths mingling, and in that moment there was nothing but them—no paddock, no races, no doubts.
Enea pulled back, his chest heaving, cheeks flushed. He looked at Pecco, his eyes shining, and in them flashed a mix of jest and indignation. He jabbed Pecco in the chest with his fist—not hard, but noticeably.
— Don't admire me, Francesco, — he said, his words playful but with depth, masking the moment. — Admire the beauty around us while we're in Bologna.
Pecco looked at him, his breathing uneven, a fire burning in his chest as if Enea had ignited him from within. He glanced at the square's lights, the arches, the towers. But then his gaze returned to Enea, and he said, in a whisper:
— I already am.
Enea froze, his smile softening. They said nothing more, just walked on, along the arcades, under the lanterns casting shadows on the wet asphalt. The city breathe