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The one good thing, Marc supposes, about him breaking his collarbone last season was that he didn’t have to go to any Ducati events for a few months.
The only problem is that now, with a freshly healed collarbone and fast approaching 2026 season, it seems like Gigi is determined to have Marc make up for all of the events he missed.
Which also means that Pecco has to go to them, too.
Marc, at least, is long used to these events. He has nearly a decade and a half of experience at them. He knows how to sweet talk sponsors, dance around the topics people don’t want to hear about (or want to hear about too much). He knows how to be humble in the face of compliments and relatable to people who have never even ridden a bike.
Pecco… doesn’t.
Pecco has been doing these for a solid amount of time as well, but it’s still like watching a bumbling baby deer. He pokes at the food they’re served and never seems to know what to do with his hands. He trips over his words constantly in Italian, either rambling in half-intelligible sentences or nearly silent. He’s not very charismatic with sponsors, and the relief on his face whenever Marc, or Gigi, or Davide take over a conversation is always visible.
He’d gotten used to all of Pecco's idiosyncrasies, both in public and in private. He’d forgotten just how awkward they were to witness to people who hadn't. He’d also gotten used to seeing Pecco at these parties, but after those few blissful months off, seeing Pecco fumbling him cringe as badly as it had a year ago.
It’s why he doesn’t hesitate before swooping in to save Pecco. “Don’t mind my teammate,” Marc apologies to the sponsor. He wraps his good arm around Pecco’s waist, feeling how he immediately relaxes. “We’ve spent a lot of time on the bike recently, testing. It, uh… what is the word?” He looks to Pecco and is greeted by a blank expression. “Uh, scrambles your brain, makes it a bit hard to think straight afterwards.”
Next to him, Pecco nods. The sponsor buys it. “Ah, alright. It was nice meeting you both,” he says, and walks away from them. Pecco lets out a deep breath as his shoulders sag.
“Thank you, thank you so much,” Pecco says. “That was horrible. Why does Gigi still make me come to these things?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Marc says. “I have your back, yes? You can stick with me, I’ll do the talking for us.”
And he does. Marc leads them around the room, introducing them to sponsors. He talks about the championship, his collarbone, the improvements they’re making on the bike this year. Any joint questions asked are solely answered by him. Pecco, to his credit, isn’t wholly silent, but it’s clear that he’s much happier with their arrangement than being left to fend for himself.
The problem arises when the music starts. Marc has no clue why an event like this would need a DJ, but apparently it does, and he also has no concept of volume control. Marc is glad for the painkillers he took before coming here; he’s sure they’re the only reason he doesn’t have a raging headache. As it is, the music is so loud he can barely hear himself speak, let alone the sponsor's responses or Pecco’s add-ons.
Actually, Marc hasn’t been able to hear Pecco because he hasn’t spoken. For at least the last three conversations, he’s only smiled and nodded, not saying a single word. Suddenly concerned, Marc ends their current conversation, blaming the noise, and looks at Pecco. Properly looks at him, not just a sideways glance to make sure he was still there.
Pecco’s face is blank and empty, but his eyes are wild, pupils darting around the room desperately. “Pecco?” He doesn’t respond to Marc, though that might just be because he can’t hear him. One thing’s for sure, though, and that’s that Marc is really worried for him now. He has got to get Pecco out of this room.
“We’re going to go outside now, okay?” Once again, there’s no response, but he wasn’t expecting one. He tightens his grip on Pecco’s waist and weaves them through the crowd towards where he knows a side door is. Pecco is lax in his arms, letting Marc move him around with no resistance.
The cool air outside is a respite when they make it out there. Marc manhandles Pecco so that he’s sitting on the steps, then steps back. He’s not entirely sure where to go from here.
The second Marc lets go of him, Pecco curls up, tucking his head between his knees, covering his ears with his hands. He starts to rock himself back and forth on the top step, muttering something in Italian Marc can’t understand. Marc is confused and very, very, concerned.
“Pecco?” Marc says. He crouches down beside him, as well as he can. “Hey, what’s going on? Talk to me.”
“Too loud,” Pecco mumbles, breathless. “It’s too loud.”
Marc is pretty sure Pecco was only referring to inside, but he still makes an effort to soften his voice when he speaks. “It was very loud in there. That’s why we came out here. It’s quiet now, yes.”
“No, no, too loud,” Pecco repeats. “Ears hurt, brain hurts, everything hurts.”
Marc hesitates. Whatever is going on with Pecco is way out of his zone of expertise. He feels uncomfortable watching Pecco like this, but he also refuses to leave him alone. He doesn’t know what to do. “Do you want me to call someone?”
“No,” he shakes his head.
“Am I too loud?” Marc asks, brow furrowed.
“Not you.” His rocking falters, for just a moment, and he looks Marc in the eyes. “Hug?”
“You want me to hug you?”
Pecco nods. He peels his hands off of his ears and tentatively holds them out in front of himself, then shakes them, as if he’s trying to flick something off of them.
Marc takes it as the best invitation he’s going to get, and nudges his way in next to Pecco on the step. He wraps his arm around him like before and holds him as tight as he can. “Talk, please,” Pecco whispers. Marc blinks in surprise. He’d stayed silent for fear of setting Pecco off again, but apparently Pecco really hadn’t minded him speaking.
So he does. He switches to Catalan, confident that it’s not really the words Pecco wants to hear. He tells him everything he and Alex did during the break, tells him about just how big rascals Shira and Stitch are, but how it still made him wish for his own dogs. He tells him about how he wasn’t fully sure if he would be able to come back from another surgery, how he doesn't know how much longer his body will let him race, but that he doesn’t have much time left.
Pecco’s rocking starts up again and the hand-shaking intensifies, but Marc realises it must be some sort of method of self-soothing. It seems to be working anyway. Pecco’s breathing, ragged and shallow, slows down and deepens. The rocking and the shaking become more methodical rather than frantic, and he starts quietly humming to himself, matching the cadences of Marc’s voice.
Abruptly, Pecco stills, then collapses into Marc’s side, burying his face in his shoulder. “Do I have to go back in?” he sniffles. Marc hadn’t even realised he’d been crying; it’s too dark here for him to notice any tears, anyway.
“No, no,” Marc assures. “I will message them, say you are not feeling well. We don’t have to go back.”
“Oh,” Pecco breathes, like he wasn’t aware that was an option. Marc wonders how many times this has happened to Pecco, and how many times he has forced himself through it. “Yes, okay.”
“Alright,” Marc gives a small smile. He stands up, then helps Pecco up, presses himself against Pecco again. “Come on, Pecchino. Let’s go home.”