Work Text:
Marc knows something is wrong when Dovi comes back from the Ducati debrief and goes straight to his laptop without kissing him hello.
It's a small thing. Stupid, even. But they've built their relationship on these small things- Andrea's hand on the small of Marc's back in the paddock, the way Marc’s things somehow always migrating into Dovi’s space, how Dovi always texts when he lands somewhere. Small, consistent things that add up to something Marc can count on.
So when Andrea just nods at him and opens his laptop, jaw tight, Marc feels it like a hand around his throat.
It feels stupid. But it is still there.
"Bad meeting?" Marc tries, aiming for casual. He's sitting on the hotel bed, still in his Honda team gear from the day's practice sessions. Assen has been wet and miserable, and his shoulder aches from a save in Turn 3 that looked better than it felt.
"Fine." Andrea doesn't look up. His fingers are moving too fast on the keyboard, aggressive in a way that means he's upset about something and trying to work through it.
Marc has learned Dovi’s moods well. The quiet satisfaction when he nails a setup. The focused intensity before qualifying. The dry humor that comes out after a few beers. This is different- this is Andrea shutting down, and Marc doesn't know what he did wrong.
"Okay," Marc says carefully. He pulls his knees up, making himself smaller on the bed. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"Nothing to talk about." Still typing. Still not looking at him.
Marc's chest starts to constrict. He knows this feeling- has lived with it for years. The sudden cold shoulder, the withdrawal of attention, the way affection became conditional on whether Marc had performed correctly, said the right things, existed in the right way. He'd promised himself he wouldn't accept that again, but here he is, watching Andrea shut him out, and all his careful boundaries are crumbling.
“Dovi." His voice comes out smaller than he wants. “If I did something-“
"You didn't." Andrea finally looks up, but his expression is a bit distant. The same face he gives journalists after a shit race. "I just need to work right now, okay? Could you" He gestures vaguely, meaning can you give me space, can you not be here right now.
Something cracks in Marc’s chest. "Yeah. Sure. I'll just-" He's already moving, grabbing his phone and key card, can’t bother with shoes because he needs to get out before Andrea sees him fall apart.
“Marc-“ Dovi starts, but Marc is already at the door.
"It's fine. Work. I get it." He doesn't look back.
The hallway is too bright and too empty. Marc makes it to the stairwell before his hands start shaking. He sits down hard on the concrete steps, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes.
This is it. This is how it ends. Andrea finally got tired of dealing with Marc's shit, the constant need for reassurance, the way Marc is still a little fucked up. Andrea's done.
Marc should go back. Should apologize for whatever he did wrong. Should be better, try harder, prove he's worth keeping around. But he can't make his legs work, can't stop the way his chest is heaving, can't breathe properly around the panic closing his throat.
His phone buzzes.
Andrea: Where did you go
Marc stares at it. Can't answer. If he tries to type, he'll just beg, and he promised himself he'd never beg again.
Another buzz: Marc, come back
And another: Please
The stairwell door opens. Andrea appears, jacket half tugged on, looking stressed and worried and nothing like the cold distance from five minutes ago.
"There you are. Cristo, Marc, you didn't even put the shoes on-“ Andrea stops when he sees Marc's face. "Merda. Okay. Okay, come here."
"Don't." Marc's voice cracks. "If you're done, just say it. Don't- don't do this."
Andrea goes very still. "Done with what?"
"With me." Marc can't stop now, all the words flooding out like he's been holding them back for months. "I know I'm too much. I know I'm- fuck, Andrea, I'm trying, okay? I'm trying to be better, to not need so much, but if it's not enough then just tell me. Don't just- don't pull away and make me guess what I did wrong. I can't do that again, I can’t-“
"Marc." Andrea's voice cuts through his spiral. He crouches in front of Marc, hands hovering like he wants to touch but isn't sure if he's allowed. "I'm not leaving you. I'm not- merda, I fucked this up."
"You said you needed space-"
"Because- it was from work stress. Not from you." Andrea looks genuinely upset now, all that distance gone from his face. "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean- The debrief was shit. Gigi's pushing changes I don't agree with, and I took it out on you by shutting down instead of just saying I was in a bad mood. That's on me."
Marc wants to believe him, but his brain won't cooperate. "You wouldn't even look at me."
"I know. And that was wrong." Andrea reaches out slowly, telegraphing the movement, and takes Marc's wrist. His thumb finds Marc's racing pulse, starts to smooth it over. "You asked if I wanted to talk, and I should've said yes, I'm pissed about the meeting but it's not about you. Instead I acted like-" He stops himself, jaw working.
He's quiet for a moment, still holding Marc's wrist like he's checking that Marc is real and here. "I didn't realize- I didn’t want to be mad at you, but I made you feel like it anyway. But that's not an excuse."
Marc's eyes are burning. He tries to blink it away, but tears spill over anyway. "I thought you were done with me."
"No." Andrea says it with absolute certainty, the same way he talks about bike setup when he knows he's right. "I'm not done with you, tesoro. I was being an ass because I was frustrated, and I hurt you. I'm sorry."
The apology is so direct, so Andrea, that Marc's chest finally loosens. But he can't stop crying now that he's started, all the panic and fear leaking out in a way that makes him feel pathetic and young.
"Hey, hey." Andrea moves closer, pulling Marc into his arms right there on the stairwell. "It's okay. You can let it out."
"I'm sorry," Marc gasps against Andrea's shoulder. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't- I am trying to be less-"
"You're fine. You're perfect. I fucked up, not you." Andrea's hand is firm on the back of Marc's neck, grounding. "And I'm not going anywhere. Okay? Even when I'm being an asshole about work, even when we fight, even when things are hard. I'm staying."
Marc believes him. That's the terrifying part- he actually believes him, which means it would destroy him completely if Andrea left. "Don't leave me," he whispers. "Please don't leave me."
"I won't." Andrea pulls back just enough to look at Marc, and his expression is so open, so earnest in a way Andrea rarely allows himself to be. "I promise. And not like a 'maybe' promise. I mean it."
Marc nods, still crying but starting to breathe properly again. Andrea wipes his tears away with his jacket sleeve, careful and gentle.
"Come on," Andrea says eventually. "Let's get you off these cold stairs. Your feet must be freezing."
They are, actually. Marc hadn't noticed. He lets Andrea help him up, and they walk back to the room with Andrea's arm solid around his waist.
Inside, Andrea steers him to sit on the bed, then disappears into the bathroom. He comes back with a wet cloth and cleans Marc's face with gentle attention, wiping away tears and snot without any sign of disgust.
"Better?" Andrea asks when he's done.
"Yeah." Marc's voice is rough, but the panic has receded to something manageable. "Sorry I freaked out."
"Don't apologize. I scared you." Andrea sits beside him, close enough that their thighs press together. "I should've told you I was feeling shit."
Marc leans into him, exhausted. "I should've asked instead of jumping to the worst."
"Maybe. But I gave you reason to jump." Andrea kisses his temple. "Have you eaten today?"
Marc tries to remember. "Lunch, I think?"
"That was eight hours ago." Andrea stands, pulling Marc up with him. "Come on. I'm making you something."
"We don't have a kitchen."
"I saw a little one down the hall. Sharing area." Andrea is already moving, gathering his wallet and key card. "And before you say we can just order room service- you need something better, and I need to do something with my hands that isn't fucking up my laptop."
Marc follows him, shuffling, too wrung out to argue if he even wanted to. The small kitchen is empty, just a hot plate and a microwave and some basic supplies. Andrea pokes through the cupboards, making considering noises.
"Sit," he tells Marc, pointing at the counter.
Marc hoists himself up, legs dangling. He watches Andrea work- cracking eggs into a bowl, finding butter and sugar and a splash of milk.
"What are you making?"
"Frittata dolce. My nonna used to make it when we were upset." Andrea whisks the eggs with a fork, adds the sugar. "Nothing fancy, but it works."
The butter sizzles in the pan. Andrea pours the mixture in, and the smell fills the small space, sweet and simple and comforting. He doesn't try to make conversation while he cooks, just lets the silence be easy between them, reaching over occasionally to squeeze Marc’s knee or trace shapes on his thigh.
When it's done, Andrea slides it onto a plate and grabs two forks. He positions himself between Marc's legs, leaning back against the counter, and offers him the first bite.
"I can feed myself," Marc protests weakly.
"I know. Let me do this anyway."
So Marc does. Lets Andrea alternate between feeding Marc and eating himself. The frittata is warm and sweet, more custard than egg, and something about it makes his throat tight again.
It's ridiculous and kind of childish and exactly what Marc needs. Andrea's solid presence between his thighs, the simple act of being cared for.
"I really thought you were leaving," Marc admits quietly.
"I know." Andrea puts down the fork.. "And I get why. But I need you to believe me when I say I'm not. Even when I fuck up- especially when I fuck up- I'm staying to fix it."
"That's not how it usually works."
"It's how it works with us." Andrea's expression is serious, intense. "You don't have to earn anything from me, Marc. You have it. Even when you're- come hai detto- too much work." He says it like the concept is absurd.
Marc's throat goes tight again, but in a different way. "I don't know how to… I'm not good at that.”
"Then I'll keep showing it until you do." Andrea cups Marc's face, makes sure Marc is looking at him. "However long it takes. I'm patient."
"You're racing Ducati," Marc points out half-heartedly. "Patience is literally your job description."
That startles a laugh out of Andrea. "Fair point." He leans in, kisses Marc's forehead, then his temple, then his lips- gentle, careful. "You're okay. We're okay. Got it?"
"Got it," Marc whispers.
They stay like that for a while, Andrea between Marc's legs, feeding him bites of the frittata and talking about nothing important. The last race. The next race. How Álex sent Andrea a meme about Ducati and apparently thinks he's hilarious. Normal things, easy things, slowly bringing Marc back to himself.
"I love you," Marc says, and then freezes because that's not- they haven't- fuck.
Andrea goes very still. His expression is unreadable for a long, horrible moment. Then, slowly, he smiles. Really smiles, the kind that crinkles his eyes and transforms his whole face.
"Yeah?" he says, soft.
"Yeah." Marc's heart is pounding but he commits to it. "Is that- is that okay?”
"It is better than okay." Andrea reaches up , cups Marc's face. "I love you too. Have for a while now, actually. Just didn't want to say it first and freak you out."
"I am, eh, pretty freaked out right now," Marc admits.
"I can tell. You look like you might throw up." But Andrea is still smiling, still looking at Marc like he hung the moon. "Breathe, tesoro. It is good news."
Marc breathes. Andrea loves him. Andrea has loved him for a while. This is- this is big. This is real. This is everything Marc has been too scared to hope for.
"Say it again," Marc demands.
"I love you." Andrea's thumb brushes across Marc's cheekbone. "I love you when you're having bad days. I love you when I’m being difficult. I love you, Marc."
"Fuck," Marc says eloquently, and then he's leaning forward, wrapping his legs around Andrea’s waist, closing the small space between them to kiss Andrea properly. Andrea's hands slide up to his waist, holding him close, and this is what solid ground feels like. Not perfect, not without cracks, but sturdy enough to stand on.
“I love you,” Marc says again when they break apart at last.
Dovi smiles softly. “I love you too.”
They clean up together, washing the plate and fork and putting things back where they found them.
Walking back to the room, Andrea laces their fingers together and doesn't let go.
That night, Marc sleeps with Andrea's arm around his waist and doesn't dream at all.