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"Pecco?"
Marc's voice is thick with sleep, though Pecco doubts he roused him by sitting up. He's spent too many nights laying awake on his side listening to Marc's equally uneven breathing to think so. "Yeah?" Pecco replies softly, praying he'll just let it go.
But it's Marc, and whenever Pecco's prayers involve Marc, they're met with indifference. There's nothing special about this moment that implies it'll end any differently, but Pecco prays anyway. He likes to call it faithful resilience; Carola would call it compulsive, if she knew. "What are you doing?"
"I just need to pee." The words are out before he can deliberate them properly. He doesn't need to pee at all, and he doesn't really want to get up to pretend he does.
It works, though. "Okay, then." Marc allows the silence to last maybe a minute longer before he breaks it again. "Don't pee on my sheets."
That draws an amused huff out of Pecco, which is probably the best he can produce right now. "I'm going, I'm going." He forces himself to his feet, dipping down along the way to pick up his t-shirt and pull it over his head before slipping out of Marc's bedroom as quietly as possible.
His eyes burn, but he refuses to blink any more frequently than he already is. It feels worse to close his droopy eyelids than to force them open.
The glass of water he pours and then subsequently downs in three seconds helps only minimally.
Pecco would feel more awkward about roaming so freely in someone else's home any other time, but right now he can barely keep his eyes open, let alone switch on the part of his brain that would care. Retribution for his flippancy walks through the kitchen door in the form of a grown man wearing sausage dog pyjamas.
If Álex thinks even half of the things Pecco does when they meet eyes, he hides it well. "Okay?" he prompts casually, sauntering past Pecco and towards the fridge.
"I was just getting a drink," Pecco says evenly. And then, because he can never keep his mouth shut around Álex: "I can't sleep."
Álex glances at Pecco briefly, raising an eyebrow. "So, go have cuddle time." His tone is impressively serious by his standards, though the smirk on his face gives him away.
Pecco ought to be more embarrassed by the way his mouth moves before he can stop it around Álex, but it's been over a decade since the first time and he's long stopped hoping it'll stop someday. "That's not something we do." Maybe he should practice in the mirror when he gets ready during mornings. A good idea, if the prospect of letting Álex occupy his thoughts that blatantly didn't disturb him so greatly.
"It isn't?"
You know it isn't. Pecco gives himself a mental pat on the back for somehow keeping that internal.
"That's surprising. Marc's usually a cuddler."
"With you, maybe." Pecco doesn't mean to sound so bitter. He couldn't care less whether Marc and Álex 'cuddle' or not. The relationship between the Márquez brothers is something Pecco isn't privy to, just like everyone else, and he doesn't want to be.
What he does know about the brothers is that they have a similar habit of refusing to let Pecco get away with things. Except where Marc seems to do it unintentionally, Pecco feels the deliberate nature of Álex's words around him every time. "Jealous?"
Pecco shoots Álex a dry look. "Why would I be jealous? I don't exactly want him to see me as a brother."
Álex snorts—impressed, Pecco hopes, because that had been difficult to get out—shaking his head as he leans against the counter, indicating he now intended to stay longer than planned. "Yeah, I hope not." Ironically, despite just settling, Álex lets the conversation fizzle out there. Pecco stares at the wall for what is either a few seconds or a few hours until he drags his gaze towards Álex to focus on what he's saying to break the silence. "...you hopeful for Austria?"
Pecco, thankfully, catches the important part. "I feel very much the same as before," he admits. Far too honest to what is technically his championship rival at this point, though he has this dreadful feeling that he'll spend more of the second half of the season looking over his shoulder at Bez than ahead at Álex.
Álex's face twists into something uncharacteristically thoughtful for a moment, and Pecco knows before he opens his mouth that Álex's next words will be genuine. "You just need to stay," he says. "Don't slip. Get lucky, but not too lucky. I've already let you have too many points recently."
Pecco's lips curl up without command, but he embraces it this time. "Not that many," he argues lightly. He hadn't really capitalised on either of Álex's recent DNFs. "How is your hand, anyway?"
"Bad," Álex says simply, wearing a subtle smile despite the reluctant expression that formed as soon as he realised he was being forced to discuss his injury. "I can't exercise it much if I don't want it to hurt."
Pecco blinks rapidly, unable to withhold a chuckle. "Ah." Maybe that wouldn't be a problem for him if he were in Álex's position right now, but for Álex? He can't imagine it's very easy to live with a hand injury as a single man. "Poor you."
"Poor me," Álex echoes dryly, coaxing another chuckle out of Pecco. It's much easier to get along with Álex like this, alone. It reminds him of when they were teenagers. He'd admired Álex then, for his lack of care when it comes to most things. Pecco'd been quiet around everyone back then, and Álex's attitude had been foreign. He's not sure if he'd call it admiration now. Maybe confusion, how someone can be so undisturbed all the time. Or maybe even some sort of fascination. Either way, Pecco wonders if he'll ever truly understand Álex.
Pecco doesn't want to end their conversation, but he's conscious of the risk of letting it drag on too long. He clears his throat softly. "Well." Pecco shifts in his place. "I better go and get some sleep."
Álex looks like he wants to say something for a few moments yet doesn't. When he does speak, Pecco has a feeling his words aren't what he had in mind at first. "Me too." He straightens, pulling the ridiculous pyjama bottoms with the sausage dogs pattern up. Pecco can't believe the most sincere conversation they've had in a long time happened with Álex dressed in those, but somehow it feels fitting. "Remember my advice."
"...Get lucky," Pecco recalls blankly. "But not too lucky." He tilts his head and lets a faint smirk form on his face. "Then maybe you should give me some of your luck. So you know I won't get any more."
Álex stares unnervingly at Pecco for a few wordless moments. He wonders what exactly he said wrong, to incur such a look. "Yeah," Álex agrees eventually, tone unfittingly grim. "I should... give you luck." He accompanies his words with a subtle step forward. Pecco can feel his own heart beating now, for some reason. And he knows, deep down, what that look on Álex's face really means. The last time he saw it—that he remembers, anyway—was post-Aragon nearly a year ago now.
If anyone asks, then Pecco will deny leaning in first. The kiss isn't passionate, nor is it particularly soft. It just is. It feels like an inevitability that Pecco knew was coming, even if he didn't see it until ten seconds ago. It's not bashful like Barcelona 2012 or sloppy like Sepang 2023 and definitely not aggressive like Aragon 2024. It's more of an exchange, if anything, though not of something deep like love or affection. Luck.
When Álex pulls away, he doesn't look like a man who's just kissed his brother's... something. Pecco actually can't get a read on Álex now. He never can, after they kiss. "Goodnight, Pecco," Álex offers smoothly, turning away to leave.
Marc is sleeping when Pecco gets back. He can tell because of the relaxed expression and steady rise and fall of his chest.
Pecco doesn't sleep a wink.